


Heir to the Throne

by jhoom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 08:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19884958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: Castiel gets far more than he bargained for when he becomes the prince’s bodyguard. More and more is asked of him… and more and more, he finds himself wondering where it’ll all end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is a story idea I accidentally got from a prompt fill I did and it just wouldn't leave me alone... So here we are 😂
> 
> I originally planned to post this serially Tumblr, but with a story of this size that's actually a pain. After asking for reader preferences and considering my own headache, I've moved it here. Sorry for the mass posting of what I've written so far.
> 
> Please note the age difference: Dean is right 16 when he's introduced to the story (not you can imagine him up to 20) and Cas is in more 20s (I imagine him around 25). Feel free to play around with those numbers to your preference - there's nothing that actually says how old they are, just that Cas views Dean as young and that he is older than him.
> 
> My hope is to update weekly, Wednesday ish. In the meantime, please visit on Tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com)!

Castiel was but a boy when he came to the castle. His parents had traded him into indentured servitude to pay off their debts to the crown, and he remembered thinking at that moment that he hated them. Years later, the hate dulled to incredulous contempt, and he could never forgive them for having cast him aside so easily. 

His life took a harsh turn then as he was forced into a mildewy cart and driven to the castle. He’d spent his days minding after his younger siblings and doing chores, with the prospect of managing the small family farm when he grew up or perhaps finding himself a trade. 

Now his fate was completely in the hands of others. 

They thought him an idiot when he arrived, standing there mutely as they inspected him. The stewards had no interest in a boy they deemed beneath their time, and his appearance and manners were both deemed too uncouth to make him any good as a castle servant. 

“He looks strong,” one said as they poked him. “Used to hard work. Send him to the barracks, they always need more soldiers.”

So a soldier he became.

The years went by, one by one. He grew, they trained him, kept him fed and clothed. At fourteen he went on his first campaign, some border skirmish that haunted his dreams for months after.

He’d never known blood could be so red.

It was a harsh life, filled with pain and barked orders and fellow soldiers who only ever tolerated him. He’d learned long ago to keep to himself, and so he’d made few friends. A soldier’s life, even a soldier serving in the castle, was not one with any guarantees of a tomorrow. After losing Balthazar, perhaps the only real friend he’d ever had, Castiel found he was better off keeping his own company. 

It was often lonely, but at night after battles, he would often hear other soldiers weeping over fallen comrades, and he knew he was better off. 

Better to always be alone than always in mourning. 

~ ~ ~

Living within the castle walls afforded Castiel many opportunities to mingle with the periphery of court life. On days he trained in the yard with the others, he would often catch a glimpse of the nobility going about their lives. He envied them their clean clothes, their pale, unblemished skin that knew nothing of hard work. 

He did not envy them the intrigues that seemed to come with their sphere of life. 

The affairs, the secrets, the occasional conspiracy or plot… It all sounded exhausting. Castiel preferred a life where the enemy was always in front of him and never hid they were trying to kill him. 

Much better than worrying your wife had been poisoned by a rival. 

“No no no,” leered one of the other soldiers. “The queen wasn’t poisoned by a rival. King John’s not had eyes for anyone but the queen since he was a boy. No, she was poisoned by her family. Her cousins were upset the king wasn’t doing right by ‘em, and when they asked her to help, she didn’t. And now…” He dramatically drew his thumb across his neck. 

The long table broke out in noise—some soldiers protesting the vulgarity of the conversation, others agreeing or disagreeing with the version of events given, but all loud and obnoxious. 

Castiel finished his dinner and left the table, uninterested. 

Whatever was going on behind the solid, stone walls of the castle, it was none of his concern. Sure, the decisions made there would likely determine the moment of his death, no matter how indirectly, but knowing beforehand was meaningless. 

His life was the routine laid out for him, and nothing more.

~ ~ ~

It was some time later another rumor circulated. The prince’s bodyguard had been killed or gone missing or run away. That was of more interest to Castiel, because this story at least involved someone he’d met. 

And Benny had never much seemed like someone who would run away. 

Even that only aroused the bare minimum of excitement from Castiel, though it was all the barracks could talk about. 

The true gravity of the situation didn’t hit him until Castiel himself was summoned before the king.


	2. Chapter 2

“Can he obey orders?” 

The king stared at him, unblinking and cold in a way not even enemy troops were. Castiel suppressed a shiver and continued to hold his gaze on the king’s boots, submissive and respectful as he was warned to be. 

“He’s a good soldier,” his commander said with a shrug. Anna, dressed in her best armor, was more grim than usual. Her monotone, bland voice did her no credit, and it worried Castiel all the more.

This was how she spoke to the troops to announce defeat or a list of those missing or presumed dead. 

“He trains hard, works well, keeps to himself, doesn’t cause a fuss. I wouldn’t have recommended him if I didn’t think he could meet your… requirements, my lord.”

King John continued to look unimpressed. Castiel has not even been told what he’s been summoned for, nor did he think it would matter. The king would make a decision, and Castiel would follow it or suffer the consequences. 

He’d seen the bodies dragged out of the dungeons, mangled, dismembered, barely recognizable masses of bloody flesh. No matter what the king asked of him, Castiel couldn’t imagine defiance being worth such a risk. 

So quietly he stayed on one knee. Quietly he waited for the king to assess his worth. Quietly he tried to hold it together, praying to the gods old and new that he would survive to the next moon. 

“Very well,” King John said dismissively. “He’ll do. Rise.”

The commander quickly grabbed Castiel by his cloak and dragged him to his feet, hand to his back to keep him in place while the king spoke. 

As if Castiel had anywhere to go. 

“You are to be my son, Prince Dean’s, new bodyguard. You are to guard his body with your own. If any harm were to fall to him while you still live, you will die. If he should die, you will long wish for death before you are granted it. If you in any way do not perform your duties to a reasonable degree, you will be branded, beaten, or otherwise punished. You will follow my orders no matter what, as well as my son’s, and no one else’s. Is this all understood?”

Castiel nodded. It felt rather like he had just signed his life away. 

_ What life? You live in the barracks with other men and women who had no futures but to wield a sword and hope for the best. You’ll be the prince’s personal bodyguard. By most accounts, this  _ **_is_ ** _ “the best.”  _

“Good.” His attention turned briefly to Anna. “See to him.” 

Her grip on Castiel’s grip tightened. He barely had time to offer a slight bow before he was dragged down a dimly lit corridor. 

And as quickly as that, his fate was sealed. 

“See to him” had felt a vague order, but Anna seemed well versed in the nuances of it. She found him quarters in the same wing as the prince’s, near his room so Castiel could better perform his duties. She explained the guard schedule, mostly that Castiel was primarily needed only when the prince was not in public or with the king. That afforded Castiel a scant six hours to himself each day in which he was to sleep and train. 

“You could try sleeping while the prince sleeps, but you will need to be vigilant and choose the times wisely. If the king or his men finds out…” Anna trailed off. She didn’t have to finish for him to know. 

“I don’t need much sleep,” he mumbled. It was true, and it often got him picked for night watches. 

Anna looked relieved. “Good. I know you’ll do well, Castiel, I believe in your abilities, but I can’t help but worrying for both our sakes. The king is not a man to be trifled with. He does well by those who please him, but those who displease him…”

The latter was manifest, but Castiel wasn’t so sure about the former. The king was not generous by any man’s account, even to those he valued. Living in one piece with fair compensation was the most Castiel dared hope for. 

He did his best to absorb all that Anna told him. Most of it was straightforward—what type of weapon to carry, how to dress, how to address the various levels of nobility, a general tour of the castle. It was not until the end that Anna again grew wary. 

“What do you know of the prince?”

Here Castiel hesitated. He’d never seen either prince in person and rarely even saw their likeness. The younger prince was known to be mild mannered, even tempered, and smart. Prince Dean, however, did not have such a fine reputation. 

The prince was handsome, charming, clever, and fit, though that was generally where the praise ended. He drank, gambled, wiled away his hours hunting. He was arrogant, demanding, and proud. He flirted with all the nobiles, men and women alike, but just as easily dismissed any marriage prospects. 

In short, he nothing at all like Castiel, nor anyone Castiel had ever met. 

“Not much,” Castiel hedged, then added, “He’s had a very privileged life.”

Anna worried her bottom lip. The commander was rarely so nervous even before battle, yet she clearly chose her words with care. “Everything you’ve heard is likely true or worse. The prince is not a…  _ bad _ person, but he has his vices and the freedom to indulge them without rebuke.”

He did not know what to say to that. “Oh.” He frowned. “What do I—?”

“The king is a dangerous man who is hard to please and dangerous to cross… but you will not see him much. If he is with the prince for any length of time, you will likely not be needed. He will trust his own guards before you.”

“So—”

“So,” Anna hissed, looking around carefully to make sure they were alone, “do not worry about the king.”

It sounded like treason, but Anna had never steered him wrong before. Patiently he listened and hoped she would start speaking sense. 

“Worry about the prince. His approval or disapproval matters more, since he is the one you will see each day. While he might not have the power to dismiss you, he has the power to make your life miserable if you displease him. Do as the prince commands, even if you think it might anger the king. The king will likely never find out, and it will make things bearable for you. Perhaps even pleasant, since the prince is known to be more generous with gifts than the king.”

“Do as the prince commands,” he repeated slowly. That part made sense and he would dutifully do so. “And,” he said, now uncertain, “do so even at the risk of the king’s ire?” 

“It will be a fine line to walk, I have no doubt,” she said. “I do not envy you. I chose you for this position for a reason. You are capable, not only of the job as the king presented it, but of the nuances of it as well. Michael and Raphael may not have thought much of you.”

Vivid flashbacks of their demeaning words temporarily froze him in place. The former commanders, lost some years ago in different battles, had made it clear how little they’d cared for Castiel and how incredibly stupid they saw him. 

“You are smart,” Anna pressed on. “You have a mind for strategy, more than the other soldiers I could have brought to the king. I have faith in you.” 

He swallowed hard. “And if I don’t share that faith?”

Anna’s expression softened. “Then may the gods help us, for the king’s wrath will ruin us both.” 


	3. Chapter 3

As terrified as Anna had made him, his introduction to Dean elicited little to no reaction from the young prince. He barely acknowledged Castiel once Anna left and went about his business as if he were alone. If anything, he went out of his way to ignore Castiel. It was a far cry from what few exceptions he'd built, being left in relative peace.

If this was a glimpse of his future, it was no worse than what he'd left behind. 

At least he'd become accustomed to being on his own. 

For hours he trailed Dean, awkwardly finding an adequate vantage point to view the prince and hoping he was in any way adequately performing his job. 

Dean wasn’t hurt or dead, so at least he wasn’t doing it  _ wrong _ . 

By the time dinner came around, Castiel had fallen somewhat into a routine. He was invisible, he was merely a fixture on the walls, he was— 

"Who's that?" 

Castiel jolted and temporarily fell out of step with Dean. He belatedly noticed the younger prince (and scolded himself for already being distracted) and made a slight bow of his head. 

“Who are you?” Sam eyed Castiel shrewdly though with no malice. 

It was already more than Dean had said to him.

"New guard," Dean said with the same casual dismissal his father had used. 

"What happened to Benny?"

A pause. Castiel was standing behind Dean, as he'd been instructed, so he could not see the prince's reaction, but he could  _ feel _ the tension ripple through him. 

"He's gone," Dean said flatly. "Far away, if he knows what's good for him."

"Oh." Sam looked very young then, not a prince but a boy in over his head. He gave his brother a nervous look before turning his attention back to Castiel. With an air no doubt reserved for court, he said, "Welcome. I'm Prince Sam and this is my bodyguard, Sully—"

"We don't talk to the help," Dean snapped with real anger. To his brother’s credit, he didn’t flinch. "Father allows you your friendship with Sully, but don't presume more than that."

The momentary delight he'd felt at the acknowledgement, the smallest semblance of human interaction, died at Dean's words. 

"I— I—" Sam stuttered, cheeks aflame. "You don't have to be such a  _ jerk _ about it, Dean!" he shouted before storming out of the library, his own bodyguard in tow.

"Great, you've upset my brother." Dean cast him a withering glare. He took a seat by the windows overlooking the gardens. "Make yourself useful and bring me a book."

Castiel's own anger rose like bile. He wished he could yell back, tell the spoiled the prince to get his own damn book. He was a trained soldier, not Dean's personal slave. Of all the soldiers in the barracks,  _ he _ was chosen! 

_ Do as the prince commands.  _

He grabbed the nearest book and dropped it on Dean's lap. 

Dean snorted. "Might be hope for you yet."

~ ~ ~

Castiel could accept Dean's coldness, the rudeness, the loneliness. It was the barracks all over again, he'd manage. His life hadn’t been his own, hadn’t been reasonably happy since he’d been sold as a boy, and he’d survived this far. 

It was the lack of sleep that would kill him.

Dean woke early, slept late, and was rarely in the king’s company. Anna’s estimate of six hours to himself was grossly incorrect. In a week, he’d possibly slept fifteen hours. He’d done stints like that while on the march or when worried about a possible ambush or attack. He could do it for a while, but it wasn’t sustainable. 

Much more of this, and he’d be useless as a guard. In a matter of time, the king would surely notice and— 

And he didn’t allow himself to consider the rest. 

“My lord,” Sully said. 

“What?” Dean asked, not looking away from the game of chess between him and Sam. 

Castiel was moderately annoyed that Sam’s bodyguard was allowed to speak without Dean snapping at him. 

“Might I suggest that I take over for Castiel while you and Sam are playing? It seems a waste to have both of us here, especially when Castiel is so obviously tired—”

“Fine.” Dean waved a hand at Castiel. “Go. I’ll send for you whenever I need you.” 

Castiel gave a thankful nod to Sully. Sully inclined his head slightly then returned his attention back to the princes. 

Finally, some sleep. 

Some damned freedom. Time to himself where he didn’t have to be Dean’s errand boy, didn’t have to be the king’s lackey, didn’t have to care that no one noticed him. 

He could be Castiel again, if only for a few hours. 

~ ~ ~

For whatever reason, Dean’s dislike of him remained constant and the silence when it was just them was deafening. 

And no, he didn’t count the way Dean would snap his fingers and point this way and that, the implied orders as he used Castiel as anything but a bodyguard. For the first time, he found himself happy the king’s men had thought him too dumb to be a servant within the castle walls. 

Soldiers earned some respect, even if it was only among their peers. 

The only moments he had to look forward to were the ones he had alone. Stolen hours when the prince was otherwise attended and was all too happy to send Castiel away. It was a mercy Sully granted him as often as he could, and he wished there was some way he could show the other man his profound appreciation. 

A month into his newfound servitude, Castiel blessedly found himself alone. The days were shortening and a chill had already settled into the stone walls. His own room and bed called to him, a blissful afternoon between scratchy sheets on a lumpy straw seemed paradise. 

He walked in a daze back to his room, only to pass by the baths on the way. His new rank afforded him access to a room that would have been a luxury to him before. The thought of warm water and the pleasant aroma soap was more alluring than sleep at the moment, and he allowed his feet to carry him away from his room. 

He reclined against the back of the tub and let his mind drift. He was no longer a soldier crammed into a metal tub meant for a man a good foot shorter than him. No, he was a free man with enough gold to do as he would. Travel with no reason to fight. Eat, sleep, drink when he wanted. Work by his own terms.

Unsurprisingly, he fell asleep in the bubbly water as the daydream took over.

And was suddenly roused from it when a bucket of cold water hit him.

"Wh—!?" He spluttered and choked as he reached for a sword that wasn't there.

"You're not much of a knight."

His heart still racing, Castiel did his best to look dignified in front of the prince.

It has hopeless, even if he weren't drenched.

"I'm not a knight," he said. Where was his towel? "I'm a soldier."

“I sent for you in your room, you know,” Dean said. “You weren’t there, and I grew suspicious. You’re  _ always _ there when I send for you. Where else might he be, I wondered. The stoic guard who knows he’s at my beck and call, that even with my permission and Sully’s watchful eye he would be severely reprimanded should my father find out he was gone.” 

Despite the lingering heat in the water, Castiel’s blood ran cold. Dean had never threatened him, but this was unmistakably a threat. 

“Why are you here?" Damn his voice for wavering. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see myself who you are. My father disliked my former bodyguard, and I assumed he'd planted one of his own men as a replacement."

He suddenly remembered all the rumors of extravagance. Parties, drinking, his reputation with those he bed. There'd be none of it, and it suddenly made sense.

The prince thought he was a spy.

"I work for your father, but only as your bodyguard. I've no interest in anything else."

Dean stared at him. Finally, he said, "I believe you."

His relief made him breath out in relief.

"I assumed when you went missing, you were reporting to my father. I went there first, truth be told, to catch you both red handed." He grimaced slightly. "Luckily for us both, he was so angry at my interruption he didn't even notice you weren't there."

"So I'm no longer the mole you feared I was."

"No, instead you're the fool who accepted the job." He threw Castiel a towel. "Get dressed. I've wasted enough time as it is."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean warmed to him after that in small ways.

They spoke more, for one, and he allowed Castiel more time to himself without Sully's prompting. But he made it clear they were not  _ friends _ or anything close to that. He still ordered Castiel around, watching carefully for any signs of disobedience and only rewarding him with an indulgent smile when he did as he was told. 

There were other, less so subtle ways he showed he trusted Castiel. 

The drinking started, nights whiled away with wine and mead and strangers Castiel had never seen before.

Then it was parties, loud and obnoxious affairs where Dean truly exceeded the rumors of his flirty nature. On more than one occasion he passed out on a noble's lap, usually an older man or a rich lady, each when a lecherous smile and roaming hands…

It might be beyond his duties to do so, but Castiel usually interceded then. He carried the prince, no longer an imposing figure but a teenage boy who had never learned moderation, back to his chambers to rest unmolested. 

When he saw Dean's surprised and somewhat disappointed face when we found himself safe and alone in his bed, Castiel wondered if he'd overstepped.

Dean never complained, though, and since the prince had proven he was extremely vocal about things that displeased him, Castiel didn't stop.

It was his job to protect the prince, after all.

Even from himself.

~ ~ ~

"Come back to my rooms," Dean said to the kitchen maid on his lap. He'd been flirting with her for the better part of a week, though today he'd taken a more hands on approach. "Wouldn't you enjoy a night with your prince?"

She blushed, looking around the empty room helplessly. Her desire was evident, either from actual lust or ambition, but still she hesitated. Her eyes meet Castiel's, and she blushed profusely.

"Ignore him," Dean said as he gently turned her chin towards him. "Pretend he's not even there."

She made a show of looking unsure before she nodded her eager consent. 

It went without saying that Castiel held the bedroom door open for them, and immediately tried to shut it to give the couple privacy. 

A firm hand prevented him from closing the heavy door.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded. "Why are you in the hallway?"

"To give you and your…  _ friend _ the opportunity to continue your dalliance in private…" He trailed off when he saw Dean's eyes flash dangerously.

"You stay out here, you alert everyone that walks by that something is off. It only takes one report getting back to my father for this to be ruined. Get in here."

"But—" 

His protest was cut off as Dean yanked him inside. The door closed with such finality that Castiel had no choice but to resign himself to his fate. 

He was relieved when he remembered the canopy on Dean's bed. He wouldn't have to see much of anything. He would simply have to ignore what little he heard—

A high pitched squeal followed by a deep chuckle, unmistakably Dean, made goosebumps rise along his arms. 

Oh no…

He had heard things in the barracks, late at night. Stifled moans and quiet gasps, the barely there sound of flesh on flesh. It was all hidden, meant to be kept quiet and equally meant to be ignored.

This… this was something else entirely.

He could see nothing but vague movements and the dancing of the canopy around the bed's occupants, but he could hear  _ everything _ . It was all he could do to stand there, ramrod straight as he imagined everything that was happening. The hungry kisses, the desperate shedding of clothes. A mess of mouths and tongues and hands…

His own pants were uncomfortably tight. The prince was an ass, but he was undeniably handsome. It was all too easy, with nothing else to distract him, to imagine how such a skilled, experienced man might take him apart.

_ No, I don't want that.  _

Another moan, a muffled scream, the prince's wordless praise and reassurance.

_ … Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. _

~ ~ ~ 

The girl didn't stay the night. Castiel had no idea what Dean would have allowed, but she quickly gathered her things to leave. 

Dean stayed in bed, not emerging again until morning.

Castiel stayed at his post, dick hard and his body aching for any touch, even an acknowledgement from the prince would do. 

But Dean slept, his light snores indicating a restful sleep.

The next day, the only indication that the previous night had even happened was when Dean sent a few gold coins down to the kitchen. There was no note with it, nothing that others could trace back to him, just the silent implication that the girl had pleased her prince and earned a reward for it.

Castiel couldn't quite pin down why he was jealous. Of the girl, yes, but  _ why _ ? 

Did he envy her relative freedom? That she could make small choices for herself? Or was it this specific choice, this opportunity with the prince that he longed for?

No, not that. Dean was handsome, truly, but Castiel had the distinct privilege of knowing he was an ass. 

… Not to Sam. 

Or to Sully. 

Or to that kitchen maid.

Or to anyone, unless they'd angered him.

Just to Castiel.

Oh.

So  _ that's _ what he was jealous of.

~ ~ ~

The girl was only the beginning. 

Next it was a stable boy, as young as Dean but more lithe. Then it was a noblewoman, layers of dresses scattered about the prince’s room that she meticulously picked up before leaving. Then it was  _ two _ noblewomen at once, though they arrived and came much more modestly dressed. Nearly every night the prince took someone different to bed, and each time it was the same.

For each of them, Dean commanded Castiel to keep his watch. For each, Castiel had to hear their pleasured cries and stay there, unmoving, unaffected. He watched them slip out, eyes downcast as they passed him, as though suddenly reminded of his presence and all the more embarrassed by it. 

And again, each morning Dean sent them some trinket or favor to them. 

The routine was so predictable that Castiel played a game with himself throughout the day. He watched the prince’s interactions to see who would catch his eye today, who would get the coveted invitation to his bedchambers. 

He was rarely wrong, though the day he was, it nearly took his breath away. 

A visiting noble—a duke, he thought, based on the name—came with his son. The man was a few years older than Dean, finely dressed, and terribly shy. Castiel dismissed him as a possibility early on, but Dean was overly attentive to him in ways that made his choice clear. 

When Castiel put his finger on why the choice seemed so odd, he found it readily enough: it was not the young man’s shyness (no, Dean enjoyed the thrill of a chase), it was his dark brown hair and blue eyes. The man was in many ways a mirror of Castiel, at least in the broad strokes. 

And the prince chose him, went straight for him it seemed, the moment he came into view. 

It was all he could think about as Dean wined and dined with the man. As he pulled him closer throughout dinner. The moment the duke was out of sight, Dean was even so bold as to reach over the armrest and start to fondle the man’s cock, eliciting a surprised gasp before the man furtively checked to see if anyone was watching.

Castiel was watching, but the man barely noticed him at all. 

After the last round of drinks were served, Dean lead the man back to his room. Castiel longed to stay outside for this one more than the others, the uncanny resemblance making him more aroused than usual. 

It’d be like the prince was fucking him, though he was sure that was the farthest thing from Dean’s mind. 

As the young noble got himself settled, Dean shocked Castiel by walking over to him. The scent of wine on his breath was intoxicating and Castiel couldn’t help but lean in as the prince spoke. 

“I want you to watch carefully,” the prince said, words only slightly slurred from drink. 

Castiel blanched. “Wh- _ what _ ?”

Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know you enjoy listening. Now watch.” 

Castiel stared as if in a trance as Dean shed his clothing, climbed onto the bed, and then carefully arranged the canopy so that only a small window was left open.

An opening perfectly angled towards Castiel. 

It was sweet torture, watching Dean take the noble apart. He could easily imagine it was his mouth Dean kissed, his nipples Dean twisted and sucked, his cock that Dean expertly worked, his voice calling in ecstasy as he came…

"Leave," Dean roughly ordered the young man once he'd had time to catch his breath. 

"But— but my lord," he protested, "you haven't—"

"I'm taken care of, I promise you." Dean have the man an indulgent kiss, chaste but tender. "You've done me well, but go now."

The sound of the door closing echoed through the room. It was deafening, terrifying.

"Come here, Castiel," the prince ordered. He'd positioned himself in the edge of his bed, legs spread to highlight the obscene bulge in his trousers. 

What could Castiel do but obey?

He walked stiffly to where the prince indicated, right between his legs.

"Did you enjoy the show? I'll admit, it was more for your benefit than mine."

Words threatened to elude him, but he managed a weak, "Yes, sire."

Dean smiled predatorily. "Good. You're so good at following orders, you know that? Better than anyone, really. Can you keep following my orders now?"

_ Do as the prince commands… _

"Of course, sire."

"Very good. Then get on your knees…"

Castiel dropped so quickly his armor clattered. Dean tsked him gently, then drew him closer. 

"You ready to serve your prince?"

He gulped. He had only a vague idea of what was to come, the barest hope that he has not misunderstood. "Yes, sire," he assured him. 

With his hand on the back of Castiel's neck, he guided him forward. "Open you mouth," he ordered.

Castiel did as he was told. He moaned when he got the first taste of Dean's cock, salty and slick welt precome. Following Dean's guiding hand, he licked and sucked, bobbed up and down and have himself over completely to his prince's demands. 

Oh how he'd wanted this, some version of this intimacy, with Dean. 

He relaxed into Dean's hold, continued to have o and swallow around the prince's hard cock as Dean began to thrust into him. 

"Fuck," Dean cried, his grip on Castiel's hair and neck tightening as his pace quickened. "You're so fucking… You do  _ everything _ I ask… Perfect little—" 

Whatever else he might have said was lost in wave after wave of come. Castiel nearly choked but managed to swallow it all. Dean flopped backward into the mattress and Castiel whined from the sudden space between them. He wanted more, wanted to lick up the few drops that had escaped, wanted to continue to be of service, but he was painfully aware that he'd been given no further instructions, no orders.

Dean lay there, his breath coming out in pants into he finally muttered, "That was better than I'd imagined. I'm going to have to fuck your mouth every night is it's always even half so good."

His heartbeat quickened. Every night? He wanted to do this again? Dean had never taken someone to bed more than once…

Like a bolt of lightning, Dean said back up. He pulled Castiel forward but his belt. Cupping Castiel's cheek with his hand, he traced his lips with his thumb. 

"You deserve a reward, I think, for being so good." Now he took Castiel's hand in his, racing I the callouses before gently kissing the palm. "How many nights have I left you hard and needy? Yet you've never complained, never disobeyed, never taken more than was offered to you. Yes, I think you should have a reward…"

Before Castiel could wonder what his reward might entail, Dean licked a long line up his palm before sucking a finger into his mouth. It was impossible to describe how erotic it was to watch, to feel as the prince devoured his fingers one by one. The whole time, Dean held his gaze and Castiel couldn't even fathom looking away.

When his hand was thoroughly coated in spit, the prince drew back to admire his handiwork. 

"Touch yourself. I want to watch you come."

The cool air hitting his warm cock was a shock to his system, briefly clearing his thoughts enough for him to wonder if this was a good idea. But then Dean made a pleased sound and Castiel suddenly didn't care if it was a bad idea.

He wanted this.

It took barely more than a few strokes, fueled by Dean's vocal praise and encouragement, before he came onto his hand. 

Suddenly boneless, he nearly collapsed to the ground. It was Dean who stopped him, who guided him onto the bed and cleaned him up.

"Rest," Dean said and he kissed his forehead. 

"Shouldn't," he mumbled. It was so hard to speak, his sudden exhaustion overwhelming him. "The king."

Dean pulled the soft, satin covers over him. It was pure decadence to lie here with Dean fretting over him.

"I'll keep you safe," he promised. He sounded confident, unreasonably so all things considered, but Castiel wrapped himself in the reassurance.

He was safe here and, more dangerously, he was happy.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel woke up and felt naked, exposed. A heavy limb across his chest kept him from bolting out of the bed, but it only served to slow him down. 

The first warnings of daybreak filled the prince’s room, shadows lessening and color coming back to life. Castiel was not naked—his thin shirt was still on, as were his pants, even if both were loose—though by comparison to how he’d started the night, he might as well have been. Where was his armor, his sword, his boots? 

How had he not noticed Dean removing them? 

How had he not noticed Dean tucking him into the soft, satiny blankets?

How had he not noticed  _ Dean sleeping next to him _ ? 

He truly was a terrible bodyguard. 

As quickly as he could, he collected his things and got dressed. His panic helped drive him, though it made his hands clumsy as he tried to fasten his belt and tie his boots. 

“You could have slept longer,” Dean said. 

Castiel stumbled, hand moving to his sword hilt only to look away in shame when he caught himself. “As your guard, I am sworn to protect you. I cannot protect you if I’m asleep instead of doing my job.” 

Dean gestured around the room, swept a hand over himself. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Besides, I much prefer having you in my bed than lurking around it.” 

His cheeks burned hot. This was unacceptable, completely dangerous… and yet his treacherous cock stirred in excitement. He could not deny the prince’s charm, his looks, his command should it come to that. 

If Dean would take him to bed again, Castiel would go. 

“I do not lurk,” he grit out. The prince didn’t need to  _ know _ how complete his hold over Castiel was. He attempted to salvage his dignity with a scolding, disapproving look. “If you disapprove of having a bodyguard, you should perhaps take the matter to the king.”

“The king,” Dean sneered. He still lay in his bed, leaning back against the massive headboard. The canopy draped him in soft light, making him look both more regal and youthful. “I wouldn’t need a bodyguard at all if  _ the king _ weren’t such an ass.” 

That threw Castiel for a loop. “He’s your father,” he said more because he could think of nothing else. He had to say  _ something _ , in case this was a test, some measure of his loyalty to the crown. 

“He’s a tyrant. He rules through fear and ignores the people, and he wonders why there would ever be an attempt on my life or Sam’s. It’s because of  _ him _ . My grandfather Henry never had to worry about his son being murdered in his sleep, nor did his father, or his father.” 

“He’s still the king,” Castiel said slowly. “I am his to command. I— I  _ cannot _ speak against him, no matter the circumstances.”

Dean shrugged. “If he gives you an order, by all means follow it. I’m bound to do the same. Just know he doesn’t care about you. You’re a pawn and nothing more, just like everyone else. I don’t think he cares about  _ me _ , except that having me means he has an heir to his legacy.” 

“It must be hard to be the king,” Castiel said, a final attempt to be loyal to the man who could end his life on a whim. “Perhaps he cares more than he shows.” 

Dean pushed out of the bed. His shoulders popped as he stretched, and he made a show of indulgently tapping Castiel’s shoulder as he walked by to fetch his clothes. 

“I know you mean well, but we can’t all afford to be so naive.”

Castiel suspected more and more that it was not  _ his _ loyalty that should be questioned. 

What exactly had Anna gotten him into?

~ ~ ~

The moment they stepped out of Dean’s rooms, things were as they’d always been. Dean was the prince, disinterested in the shadow looming behind him and completely engrossed in seeking pleasure. It was barely afternoon when he took up mead in his favorite drinking room. Men and women of all ranks filtered in and out throughout the day, paying respects to the prince in the only ways he accepted. 

Gossip. 

Gambling. 

Drinking. 

Castiel stood there in silence. He took it all in with a more keen eye and ear than before. The prince was subtle in his disdain for the king, but over the day Castiel heard enough that he worried. 

Dean dismissed the need for a bodyguard, yet he fermented dissent and created danger for himself. He was too complacent in his position as prince, as though that made him untouchable. Perhaps it did in a great many ways, but Castiel had seen equally cocky generals and commanders get cut down when they least expected it. 

In the end, they were all vulnerable unless careful. 

Early into the evening, Castiel knew it would be one of  _ those _ nights. One where the prince drank to excess and passed out among the sycophants who wished to use the young prince for all he was worth. They encouraged his vices until he finally collapsed among them. 

“Your Majesty,” a man purred as he came in close. Dean groaned and rolled over, only to have another man block his escape on the chaise. 

“Your Highness.” 

A hand disappeared, Dean yelped, and Castiel had had enough. 

“The prince is retiring for the evening,” he said evenly. Somehow he was able to mask his disgust, his  _ rage _ that these people would  _ dare _ touch the prince. 

“We’ll take good care of him,” said the first man with a leer. 

“Your services aren’t needed here,  _ boy _ ,” the second spat. 

Castiel snatched the man by the throat and yanked him to his feet. The man’s eyes went wide—he was a noble, after all, completely unused to such rough treatment—and he fell silent. 

Castiel held him close, stared him in the eye and said as icily as he could, “You will not touch the prince again. You will not show your face here again, or I shall report your behavior to the king.”

“You wouldn’t!” whimpered the first man, though he’d already distanced himself from Dean’s prone form. “The king would reprimand the prince as well!”

“And just imagine what he’d do to  _ you _ ,” Castiel snapped before he threw the now crying man to the ground. “Leave. I will not repeat myself.” 

He didn’t bother to see if they were listening. Castiel knew himself to be an imposing figure, and even if he was bluffing about the king, it was not a bluff they could afford to call. Instead he focused on Dean, gingerly picking him up and holding him close. Dean shifted in his sleep and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s neck. He snuggled into Castiel with a deep inhale. 

“My hero,” he mumbled. 

“Go back to sleep,” he scolded. His anger had ebbed and now that they were alone in the long, empty hallways, he could not even hold onto the appearance of it. 

“Come to bed with me and I will,” the prince whispered into his ear, his lips fainting brushing against the sensitive skin there. 

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I’m always drinking, what’s that matter?” 

Castiel didn’t answer. They continued in blissful silence, delaying the inevitable decision he’d have to make once they arrived at Dean’s bed. 

“Cas,” Dean cooed when Castiel laid him on the bed. He kept his arms stubbornly around Castiel’s neck. Castiel could easily break the hold if he wanted to, but despite his better judgement he made no move to. 

"Yes, sire?"

"Stay with me tonight."

"I stay with you every night."

"Not like that." He batted his eyes.

"I do as you command—"

"Maybe this once I don't  _ want _ to have to command it." A pause. "Please."

And as simple as that, Castiel was one step closer to damnation. 


	6. Chapter 6

It was like a drug, waking in the prince's arms. It sent a thrill through him and goosebumps rose along his skin wherever they touched. As handsome as the prince normally was, he was stunning like this: relaxed, no air of pride or haughtiness marring his natural beauty. 

He really was stunning. 

Castiel allowed himself a few moments before he gently extricated himself from the prince's hold. The luxury of being in his bed was one he'd been lucky enough to have twice, and might even again if the prince would allow it, but there was no reason to tempt fate by staying there now. Morning would come soon enough, and along with it their chances of being caught. 

How badly would it go for him if the king caught him not at his post?

Not nearly do bad as if the king found him in Dean's bed. No matter how much the prince promised his protection, there was nothing that could save him from the king's wrath.

Often, Castiel found himself wondering about Benny. Castiel had known the man as a fellow soldier, though they seldom spoke. They ran in very different checked, or rather, Castiel avoided all circles. Benny had been charming in a way Dean would have liked, he thought. 

Did Benny find himself in Dean's bed as well? Is that what forced him to leave, if he ever left at all? Did the king find out, or was Benny merely fearful and wanted to protect himself?

Should Castiel be taking the same precautions? Should  _ he _ run and never look back?

Dean yawned in his sleep and rolled over onto Castiel's vacated side of the bed. He groaned and buried his face in Castiel's pillow, sighing in sleepy pleasure.

Too late to run. Castiel could not leave the prince. The temptation his bed was almost enough to seal Castiel's fate, but it wasn't just that. Despite his confidence and the power he wielded as crown prince, he was still young. Whatever games he was playing, he didn't foresee any danger for himself in them.

Very few bad mouthed the king with impunity. Sooner or later, Dean would need to answer his words, his deeds.

And Castiel would be there to protect him, no matter the cost to himself.

~ ~ ~ 

Again Dean drank too much. He gambled away a small fortune (bringing back a list childhood memory of being sold to settle a debt not nearly so great as the prince had just lost) and made a show of being upset about it. 

"You've displeased your prince," he said with a scowl.

"There's always next time, my liege."

"I don't you'll ever be invited to court again," Dean sneered. He waved his hand. "Leave, all of you. I'm bored of you."

The nobles, lackeys, and attendants all muttered some mix of apologies and displeasure, but they filed out of the room. 

When Dean was alone—because even Castiel did not count his own presence—he grinned.

"Come here," he gestured more than said.

Castiel obeyed. 

He stopped well short of where the prince sat. He knew what might be ordered of him next, but he dared not presume. For all he knew, the prince had bored of him as well and Castiel had no wish to trouble the prince with his impudence.

Dean motioned Castiel closer, step by step until he was close enough for the prince to grab hold of his sword belt. 

“Finally got you to myself.” 

“I am with you all the time, sire. If we are or aren’t alone is completely up to you.” 

Dean ignored him and instead jerked him forward so he fell onto the prince’s lap. He quickly shifted his weight and balance and then rested there, looking down at Dean and waiting for further instructions. While he didn’t quite understand what Dean saw in him as a partner, he did know that Dean liked to give him orders and enjoyed having those orders obeyed without question. 

There i would be more orders, he knew that too. 

Hands on Castiel’s hips, Dean began to thrust up into him. There were still layers between them, but Castiel could feel Dean’s dick hardening with every movement. 

“Kiss me,” Dean said. Castiel leaned down and started the kiss and was unsurprised when Dean took over. He dominated Castiel’s mouth, his body, and Castiel revelled in it. It didn’t feel like a loss of control. 

It almost felt like coming home. 

“I’m going to be in you by the end of the week,” Dean promised before he continued to devour Castiel, body and soul. 

By the time Dean got a hand between them, a hand around their cocks, had skillfully worked all manner of filthy sounds from Castiel’s mouth, Castiel knew he would forever belong to his prince… and would likely die for it sooner than later. 

~ ~ ~

The prince kept up the appearance of being a flirt, but every night he found an excuse to dismiss his would be paramour. Instead it was Castiel, always Castiel. 

What truly worried Castiel was another shift in Dean's routine. 

Dean had a tendency to give audience to those who had an obvious disregard for the king. They knew the prince would give an ear to their dissent if not outright encourage it. It grew a certain type of person to Dean's parties, and Castiel worried that some day words would become action.

The prince, no matter how he felt about his father, had nothing to gain from any of this. As heir to the throne, he was in the strongest position to influence his father in positive ways, or at least let the groundwork for his own reign.

Instead he let others influence him. 

Most were harmless. Castiel could see they only hoped to get on the prince's good side and perhaps line their pockets with his gold. 

Others were not. They rarely revealed themselves so readily, but Castiel was suspicious of several who likely had designs to manipulate the prince in more dangerous ways. 

As diligent as he was, Castiel didn't notice the worst of them until it was too late.

Azazel. A noble from a bloodline with their own claim to the throne, although a very weak one. He dined with Dean more and more, whispering into his ear. Castiel never heard a word, not after Azazel had truly gained the prince's trust. He would wait until the ruckus was too loud or when Castiel was standing guard too far to overhear more than the urgent tone of his words. Dean always listened intently, his whole visage serious. 

“You should not give Lord Azazel so much attention,” Castiel said one evening. They were alone in bed, their breathing barely calmed, yet he could not help himself but speak of it. 

Sweat dripped from Dean’s brow. He scowled at Castiel with a princely look of disdain. “Do not tell me what to do.” 

“I do not,” Castiel agreed plainly. “I ask you to be careful. Azazel is a dangerous man, the center of many rumors.”  _ Like those concerning the death of your late mother… _ “I would not want your reputation marred because you chose to put your faith in a man unworthy of it.” 

“And who  _ is _ worthy of my faith?” Dean said, his earlier anger turned into childish impatience. “Pray, enlighten me.” 

Castiel wanted to take Dean’s hand and kiss each knuckle, his palm, trace a line of kisses up his wrist, his arm. He wanted to distract Dean and placate him. 

But Dean had not ordered such and clearly was not pleased when Castiel presumed himself as more than he was. He had already annoyed Dean and did not wish to do more, lest he lose what little hold he had on Dean’s attention. 

“I do not know that I have ever met a man or woman worthy of you,” Castiel said honestly. “All I can say is that Azazel and men like him are the farthest thing from it. Please be careful, sire. He means to use you ill, and I would not see that.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You are to protect my body, nothing more. Don’t trouble yourself with these matters, Castiel. I can handle myself, trust me.” 

As if Castiel had a choice. If the prince would not listen to reason, then Castiel would have to trust that he could, indeed, handle himself in this mess. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this marks the end of what was posted to Tumblr, all chapters after this are only on ao3)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! First ao3 update :) note I've added two new tags: violence and anal fingering

"This man is charged with treason to the crown. He has forsaken his oath to the king and sought to undermine his Majesty's authority. He has willfully tried to recruit others to his infamous cause, and so confessed under torture. The king has commanded he die for his crimes."

The herald's voice boomed in the courtyard. It certainly helped that the people gathered for the execution stood in somber silence. Castiel knew not what held their tongues and kept them transfixed, but it was a chill terror that made his body rigid and impossible for him to turn away.

That could be  _ him _ . For treason, for laying his hands on Dean despite the prince's enthusiastic consent, for disobeying his orders. Hell, the king could take issue with Castiel for any manner of reason and send him to the dungeons for questioning. A confession under torture would produce whatever result King John wanted.

The herald stood aside. It gave the crowd a better view of the chained man in the guillotine. Not that many wild recognize him; the dungeons had not been kind to him. He was bruised, beaten, filthy, and likely hadn't seen a real meal in days. 

He was pitiful, and he looked relieved that his hardships were at an end. 

"Fuck," Dean hissed. They were in a tower overlooking it all, a safe vantage point that allowed the prince to watch without having to go among the people. "I kissed him. Months ago. He was too drunk to take to bed. I had a mind to try again the next day, but he was gone."

The executioner approached the guillotine.

"Do you think he's been in the dungeons all this time? Right beneath my feet?"

The man's hand went for the switch.

"Do you think he committed any crime at all? Or is this simply another example of my father's paranoia?"

The blade fell. The crowd collectively let out a gasp. The head dropped, rolled, disappeared into the crowd.

At least the blade had been sharp.

"This is unacceptable."

There was a darkness in his eyes and tone that worried Castiel. 

"Don't be hasty," he whispered to Dean. "That man might not be the criminal he's made out to be, but it's not worth angering the king."

"Is it not worth a little anger if a man was killed for no reason?"

_ No _ , he wanted to say.  _ Because what if that anger is directed at  _ **_you_ ** _ next? What if it's  _ **_your_ ** _ execution they're coming to witness next? _

Castiel didn't bother giving voice to these fears. They were his fears, fears he knew Dean did not share. He felt his name, his blood, his crown gave him impunity to say things that would clearly get others killed. 

If the king were half so bad as Castiel had come to fear, Dean's blood would not protect him forever.

It was only a matter of time, unless he  _ stopped _ .

"Please," he said instead. "Please be careful. It is my job to keep you safe, but I cannot fight the whole kingdom for you."

_ Would that I could… _

"And I won't ask you to," Dean said. He was still transfixed on the scene below them. The fringes of the crowd had already departed, but the ones at the heart of it were kicking at what could only be the discarded head. "Besides, there's only one man to worry about."

"That one man  _ is _ the kingdom," Castiel pointed out.  _ Please see reason.  _

"Not when he hides behind stone walls five feet thick. Not when he won't take audiences from his own people. Not when—"

"It matters not if he deserves what he has. He  _ has _ it. There's an army at his command, a great number of them stationed within these very walls. A word from him is enough."

Dean was quiet some time. 

"You're right," he eventually said, and relief washed over Castiel. Thank the gods, the prince was listening. He hadn't been too late. 

The prince turned on his heels and went inside. 

Castiel was never happier to be safe inside the cold, castle walls. Anything to leave the madness of the behind them.

~ ~ ~

The execution, regardless of its true intentions, had a profound effect on Castiel. The prince's earlier concession helped ease his fears for Dean's safety, but it had him on edge for days afterward.

Dean might be safe, but it had painted a vivid picture of what his future could still look like. If all that man had done was kiss Dean...

Not that his worries seemed even registered for Dean. He was as insatiable as ever. 

“We should stop,” Cas said between kisses. The bed’s canopy obscured them from view, but they were quickly becoming too loud and heated for it to be anything but obvious what they were doing. 

All it would take was one stray guard servant to hear them… 

The memory of metal slicing through flesh made him shiver and dimmed his arousal.

“No!” The prince pouted and buried his hands in Castiel’s cloak, drawing him closer and making his escape more difficult. “Stay with me!”

"Sire…"

It was difficult to remain firm when faced with a direct order. He had yet to violate one, and even now he could feel himself yielding. 

"You still call me that?" Dean teased. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of Castiel's pants. Skilled fingers forced his cheeks apart and teased at the edges of his rim. "Here? Now? In a bed we have shared so often?”

"You are my prince," he said weakly. 

"Not your lover?" The tip of his finger breached the tight muscle before pulling away. 

"When you allow me the privilege, yes, but you are my prince first and foremost. I'm here to protect and obey you above all else."

"Obey," Dean said with a laugh. "Yes, I like that best about you. You're so good at obeying…"

He stole Castiel's words with a kiss, his fingers continuing to tease him. 

"I won't order you tonight," he whispered in Castiel's ear as he licked and kissed and nibbled. "You may stop me if you'd like."

Castiel remained frozen in indecision. It would be laughable to deny he wanted to stay here in the prince's arms. It would be easy, too. 

Again, he remembered the courtyard and the young man who'd met his untimely end there. Above his desire, there was fear. Fear for himself of course, but a growing fear for Dean as well. 

Any way he could keep them both out of the spotlight was for the best.

With a sigh, Castiel firmly extricated himself from the prince’s grasp. Dean allowed it, even allowed Castiel to thread their fingers together.

“Dean,” he said, hoping he sounded stern and not as though he’d—once again—about to give in to the prince’s will. “Being your bodyguard allows me to get this close, but if one of your father’s men found me here…”

He’d be dead, quietly executed without a trial. Before that, one could only guess what nightmare he'd live through. 

Dean cursed under his breath. His hand squeezed Castiel's before he snatched it away.

“Very well,” he mumbled. “You are free to go back to your duty. It'd be a lot more fun for us both if you weren't so damn honorable."

"Fearful, sire," he corrected. "It's fear if what may come that keeps me away. My honor is already yours to do with as you will."

"Fear," Dean sneered, though Castiel did not feel the scorn was directed at him. "When I am king, you needn’t worry about such things, you know. I'll bed you in front of the whole court if I want to and you'll have nothing to fear but a sore ass..”

It was such an absurd fantasy that Castiel had no doubt Dean had dreamed of it before. It was a boy's desire, one that he would long outgrow before he took the throne.

_ Not that I with be opposed to it… _

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Another time, perhaps.

“That is likely many years away. The king is strong yet.”

A mischievous glint sparkled in Dean’s eyes.

"Is he?"

Castiel didn't know how to answer the subtle threat in those words. He'd thought he'd turned the prince away from such dangerous ideas. Had Dean not avoided Azazel and his crew since the execution? 

Again, he worried that soon his mantle of bodyguard will be even more important, that he'd have to be truly vigilant in the days to come. It was one thing to protect Dean from external threats, but now he needed to actively protect Dean from himself.

Swallowing hard, he merely said, “I suppose we shall see.”

"We shall. Now go back to your pay and watch your prince touch himself, knowing the whole time you could have been here with him…"

It was torture, but it was at least a kind of torture that Castiel could live with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes part of the [original prompt fill](https://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com/post/186080495082/destiel-bodyguard-and-secret-relationship-for) that inspired this whole mess - it's worth checking out just to see the shift in their relationship since I first wrote that


	8. Chapter 8

Letters.

That was why Castiel had not seen the prince and Azazel. He’d dared to hope he truly had gotten through to him, that seeing a man _die_ for treason would scare him into stopping whatever madness he had planned, but no, he’d merely learned to be more careful. 

Castiel might not even have noticed if curiosity hadn't gotten the better of him.

He was not a learned man. He'd had some meager understanding of letters and words from boyhood, but as a soldier he'd rather has an opportunity to practice and continue that start. There was the occasional ledger he'd had to read and sign, a stolen book passed among the barracks. It'd left him a slow reader with an unsteady writing hand. 

Not that he much cared. It wasn't a needed or even useful skill for a soldier. It was only when Dean spent hours on end reading thick books or writing letters with a beautiful quill and elaborate cursive that Castiel began to feel lacking.

What could he offer a prince besides a warm body? 

Protection, he supposed. 

Still, he longed for more. He wanted to pretend at being one of those nobles with interesting lives that could captivate Dean's mind. 

So he picked up a letter and another, asking Dean who he wrote to.

"Read for yourself," he said without looking up from his desk. "That's to my godfather, King Robert."

Castiel frowned at the parchment. 'King Robert' appeared nowhere, though there was a rather plain 'Uncle Bobby'. He pushed that aside. There were more names, mostly unfamiliar ones. Joanna. Ash. He muddled through the list, trying to imagine the faces to go with each name. It took so much effort he didn't bother to read the contents of the letters themselves.

And then his eyes fell upon a name that made his blood run cold.

Azazel. 

These letters were all drafted today. While Castiel thought Dean had broken off all contact with Azazel, he'd merely changed the method.

Now beyond wishing to impress Dean, Castiel wishe desperately wished he could read to unlock the secrets hidden in the closely packed words.

His eyes searched for meaning.

King.

Soon.

Oath.

What oath? What was going to happen soon? Damn it all, why couldn't he make out the rest— 

A hand obscured the letter from view and then deftly folded it.

"I thought I'd made my opinion on spies perfectly clear."

Castiel's cheeks burned with shame, for he had been trying to spy and worse than that, he'd done a piss poor job of it.

There must have been something if his embarrassment written on his cheeks, for the prince's tone turned gentle. 

"You can read, can't you?" 

He saw a glint of pity in Dean's eye and sought to erase it.

"I can!" he exclaimed, but too quickly and too defensively. "Better than most of the soldiers," he added more reasonably.

"Oh Castiel," he said with such feeling Castiel didn't know what to make of it. How could his near illiteracy seem anything but a sign of his low birth, his uselessness? 

"You shouldn't write to that man. Whatever the contents of that letter, it should not be committed to paper."

_I don't know what it says, but I know it's nothing good._

"It bears no seal, has no signature. It cannot be tied to me."

“You claim your father is an unjust king, yet you think such things will keep you safe. It takes but one accusation—real or not—for doubt to be planted in the king’s mind, and then you are _never_ safe.” 

“So long as he’s on the throne,” Dean said, finishing a thought Castiel hadn’t realized he’d left unfinished. 

“Aye,” he conceded. He licked his lips. This was the moment to ask, nay, to _demand_ Dean tell him his plans. How could he protect the prince if he didn’t know what form an attack might take? 

But knowing would mean acknowledging it openly. It would mean having to make another decision: whether or not to inform the king. 

The moment passed and Castiel allowed it to. He did not ask the necessary questions as he watched Dean neatly seal all but one of his letters with the royal seal. He did not press for answers as Dean handed one letter in particular to a young boy, a shiny gold coin held for his inspection while Dean whispered directions in his ears. He did not stop the boy, burn the letter, or do any of the other countless things he could have done. 

He let it happen, and trusted the prince was not a fool. 

~ ~ ~

Betray the prince to save the prince. It was a thought that haunted him. Dean was planning something, or Azazel was and had the prince’s support. Either way, it could only spell disaster for Dean. 

Monarchs who plotted against their family did not survive long even if those plots were successful. 

Soon. The letter had said soon. 

It was all he could think about. He wanted to let it be, wanted to pretend the prince was all talk and no bite, but he dared not hope things would stay as they were for long. 

Something small, perhaps. He would not go to the king, that would only spell death for himself and disaster for Dean. No, someone else. There must be someone else he could tell, that he could warn. 

But who?

It was expected that Castiel continue his training. He was a soldier, a bodyguard, he needed to be fit and well prepared for a fight at any moment. There were training rooms within the castle used by the royal guards, and Castiel had taken to sparing with them… but surely it would not be unusual for him to go to the barracks instead. He was more familiar with their equipment, after all. 

And if he happened to arrive at a time he knew the commander to be free… well, it would surely not be strange for him to pay her a visit. 

To his great relief, indeed no one questioned him as he left the castle and crossed the small yard to the barracks. Some of his former comrades at arms bowed their heads in acknowledgement of both him and his new rank, a few even shouted a friendly “hullo!” before he disappeared into Anna’s small office and quarters. 

“Who in the gods’ names—” She stopped short when she saw him. “Oh fucking hell,” she hissed, motioning for him to close the doors. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to run away, too.” 

He paused, then closed the doors. Apparently he was not the only one with secrets to expose. “Run away?” 

“I helped Benny get out when he thought he was in over his head.” She motioned for him to take a seat. “The bastard really let himself get in deep. Sleeping with the prince.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. 

“Oh.” 

“I don’t care that he did it. I’m not a prude and I’m well aware the draw the prince has. I’d be tempted myself. I care that he bragged about it to the wrong people and had to flee the king’s wrath. Damned cocky fool. Discretion was part of the reason I chose you—” As though remembering who she was talking to, she cut herself short. She squinted at him. “Castiel, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I fear something terrible will soon come to pass, but I don’t know what.” 

She nodded. “And the prince is involved?” 

It was too painful to do more than nod. “I have nothing but suspicions,” he quickly added. Even that small admission troubled him, and he already worked to correct it. “It’s just words, and the prince does like to talk—”

“That he does,” she agreed. “Sit.” 

He did as he was told, only belatedly realizing she no longer had the authority to give him orders. 

She leaned across her desk. “The prince talks a lot,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t think anything of it. He’s complained about how the kingdom is run for years, but he has nothing to gain by anything you could be worried about. The king, for all his faults, is Prince Dean’s father.” 

“I fear you are mistaken—” 

“I will keep an eye out for anything unusual, I promise you, Castiel. But you are worrying yourself sick for nothing.” 

“What about Azazel?” 

Anna stiffened. “What?”

“Azazel. Is he… Is he equally harmless?” 

“Dean’s colluding with Azazel?” Try as she might to remain neutral, her shoulders had gone rigid. “Are you sure—”

“They write each other. They’ve spoken with each other. They whisper and— and I don’t know what they’ve said, but I do not _trust_ him.”

“Nor I,” Anna admitted. “I can _prove_ nothing, but I do not care for the man. He was one of the few who attended the queen in the weeks before her death, and yet none of the rumors of poison dared to name him. He’s tricky, too tricky for the likes of us to bring before the king without it being our own necks.” 

“So what can we do?”

“Pray? Unless you think you can convince the prince—”

“I cannot. I have tried and I truly cannot.” 

“Then yes, pray. I might be commander of this garrison, but that is virtually meaningless. There are the castle guards, there are mercenaries, there are soldiers under these very roofs who are looking to change their fortunes…”

“Is there no one else we can talk to—?” 

“Azazel has ears and eyes everywhere. You are lucky you are the prince’s bodyguard and you are lucky you came to me. If you’d gone to one of his men…” She shook her head. “He will perhaps suspect you, but he will not do anything to have Dean against him if they’re working together.” 

“So we wait? That’s all?” 

“We wait,” she agreed. “I will be vigilant, as you must as well, and we must hope that is enough.” 

_It’s never enough_ , he thought as he took his leave. _It’s never nearly enough…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know, more build up with nothing to come of it, but i'm 99% certain shit will hit the fan next chapter


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel should have known better. 

The evening started with Dean dismissing his usual entertainment. Instead he feigned exhaustion and silently slipped away from the party he’d organized. Then there was the wine, carefully poured into two silver chalices. 

“Drink,” Dean ordered as he handed Castiel an over full glass. 

He’d never given Castiel wine before. He’d never needed alcohol to seduce Castiel, not when all he needed was a word or a look. 

He’d also rarely indulged in drink in the privacy of his room. It was a vice of his to be sure, but one that he used in social gatherings. He would drink himself to oblivion if he had someone to share the experience with. Alone, though, he rarely bothered. 

“What’s the occasion?” Castiel asked. He accepted the wine and had a mind to put it aside when Dean wasn’t looking, but the prince stared at him until he took several long gulps. 

Dean rewarded him with a smile. He clinked his own glass to Castiel’s and took a long drink to match Castiel’s. 

“I’m in a good mood,” is all he said. “And I want to fuck you properly. None of this being quiet nonsense. I want to take my time opening you up and then fucking you long and hard until you’re yelling and moaning so loudly no one on this side of the castle will be in any doubt as to what I’m doing to you.” 

Castiel swallowed. Dean painted a vivid picture, one that Castiel had no personal objections to, except he wanted to keep his head attached to his body. That was what the wine was for, he supposed, to loosen him up enough that he could no longer hold back the filthy noises Dean wished from him. 

The wine was indeed plentiful. Dean dutifully watched as Castiel finished not one but two chalices worth. He himself had three or four, though it barely seemed to phase him. Castiel felt he could barely string two coherent words together, yet Dean still could order him around. 

“No cloak.” 

“Lose the sword.”

“Pull down your breeches.” 

“Bend down. No, not there. Yes, there. The edge of the bend.” 

“Relax.” A kiss. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Each command was followed without hesitation, and each time he was rewarded with a caress, a word of praise, gentle encouragement. It was resoundingly like all of their other stolen nights together, or would be if not for the alcohol thrumming through his veins. The wine enhanced everything, made every touch electric as Dean’s nimble fingers worked him open with an excess of slick oil. 

He did, in fact, cry out when Dean pushed into him. 

It was a small sound, even though it was deathening in the room. Castiel worried who might hear them one moment, the next moment he floated on a wave of ecstasy. Back and forth, the fear and pleasure fought for his attention until— 

Until the world exploded. 

The explosion was so loud, booming and shaking the thick castle walls, that at first Castiel was dazed by it. He steadied himself on a bed post, all hint of arousal gone as he scrambled to make sense of what was happening.

_ We're under attack… _

It was the simple, most obvious conclusion. Castiel remembered such attacks during battle, raw fire that consumed all it touched. It made no sense for such an attack here at the castle, but the sound and feel were unmistakable. 

He rushed to the nearest window. As late as it was, he should see no more than the torches lighting the way for the guards on their rounds.

Instead he saw fire in the far reaches of the courtyard, near the main entrance to castle.

The barracks. The armory. Disaster.

"Dean!" he cried. His body at least remembered what was needed, his hands working to secure his pants, his sword belt. "Dean!"

"Here," the prince said weakly. He'd slipped to the floor and was laying there, an undignified mess. The explosion had startled his orgasm out of him, and a familiar mix of oil and come soaked his legs. 

"Get dressed," Castiel barked. It was surreal be ordering the prince around for once, stranger still that the he scrambled to obey. "We're under attack."

"No, it's— it's fine." Dean wiped himself off with the corner of his blankets, then wiggled into his pants. He was still a mess, a pale, uncertain mess, but a glimmer of usual regal self shone through. 

"It's fine?" Castiel snapped. "How is this in any conceivable way  _ fine _ ?"

Dean had the decency to blush, but any possible explanation he could offer was cut off by a loud knock at the door.

"Your Majesty!" The voice was muffled by the door, unfamiliar and… wrong, somehow. Too calm, perhaps. He wasn't sure, but the tone was off. 

Castiel motioned for Dean to remain silent, but the prince ignored him. 

"Yes?" he called. "What news have you?"

"The king is dead. Poisoned. You are needed to rally the soldiers."

It made no sense. Poison? Not killed by the explosion or by force? And what soldiers? Those loyal to the crown would be dutifully putting out the fire and securing the castle. They would likely not even know the king was dead…

"Enter!" 

Castiel immediately moved to put himself between the prince and the door, though Dean attempted to peak around him. 

Three men entered. They were dressed in armor, but with no recognizable crest from the king's army, nor from any of the more prominent noble houses that often sent men to supplement the king's numbers as necessary. 

These men were sell swords. 

"Leave," Castiel snarled, hand on his sword hilt.

"Cas, it's fine. I’ve been expecting them all night—” 

“You’ve  _ what _ —?” His mistake was turning to look at Dean. He couldn’t believe Dean was a part of this—though in hindsight, it should have been obvious—and needed to look his prince in the eye in a desperate attempt to find out  _ what in the name of the gods he was playing at _ . 

The second he took his eyes off the men, he heard the telltale sound of a steel blade being drawn, echoed by two more right after. 

Well, fuck. 

He whipped around and managed to get his own sword out in time to block the first, though not the second blow. His shoulder stung, injured for sure but no way to tell how severely now. While he parried blows, he used his free hand to shove Dean behind the bed. There was no way to the prince that didn’t go through him. 

As it should be. 

“Surrender the prince!”

“Piss off,” Castiel grit out. His shoulder burned. Blood then, not just a bruise. Lovely. He pulled out his knife to give himself some more leverage in the fight. 

“We won’t hurt him! We need him alive—”

“Won’t hurt him much anyway,” another leered. “Don’t be a fool, dying for a fool.” 

Castiel ignored them. It wasn’t his first fight. He remembered the war cries in the thick of battle, shoulder to shoulder with men quivering in fear and shouting back at the hordes of barbarians. It was hell, it was chaos, and it was a distraction he’d quickly learned to filter out. He let them babble, let them fool themselves into thinking they had any sort of upper hand. 

They were skilled, technical fighters, their rigorous practice and repetition in training drills evident. Jab, block, try to gain ground. There was little variation as the three of them pressed in from all sides. Three against one, an already injured soldier who’d been drinking all evening, they likely thought the fight was a formality.

Damned idiots. 

Castiel could have handled a dozen more if need be. He’d done so plenty of times when it was only his life and honor on the line. Now it was his and the prince he fought for, and he’d be damned if he’d let them lay a finger on him. 

He was quick, he was merciful, and he was a hell of a lot more merciful than he would have liked to be. Unfortunately, time was not on his side. When these men didn't return, they'd send more. Maybe even some that weren't so damn green they'd never seen a battle. 

"Holy shit," Dean whispered. Castiel looked to him, traced the lines of sweat dripping down his face and mingling with the blood splattered there. "I have never wanted anyone so much as I want you in this moment—"

"Shut up." 

The prince looked offended at Castiel's tone. 

Part of him wanted to soften his words and see to the prince. Was he okay, was he hurt?

The rest of him had more urgent problems that required his attention.

"Did you know about this? About the king? The  _ explosion _ ?"

"You… you said if… if he had an army supporting him…" 

Rage, white hot and overpowering, filled him. The prince  _ dared _ put this on him?

"I served with those men and women! And you are no better than your father if you can treat their lives as mere pawns in some game!"

The prince had the decency to look ashamed.

"I just wanted to do better—"

"Then start  _ now _ . You will do as I say without question until I am certain you will survive this mess, understood?"

The prince nodded. 

"Good. Pack a bag. Find your most modest clothing, a plain cloak, any food and drink you have at hand, and as much coin as you can carry. We have to go.  _ Now _ ."


	10. Chapter 10

Outside of Dean’s room there was a flurry of activity in the halls, but it was nothing in comparison to the frenzy outside the castle. It was chaos, plain and simple, and it allowed Castiel to grab an unattended horse. They caught no one’s eye, garnered no attention as people scrambled to put out fires or simply figure out what the fuck was going on. 

Even on the path out of the castle, they were not alone. Several others were fleeing, taking an opportunity for freedom or perhaps simply trying to save themselves from the fire, the attack, the coup in progress. 

Castiel lead the horse while Dean rode, but only until he’d managed to get them away from the crowds. When they were less rattled, they might take note that Castiel’s cloak was too fine, Dean’s face a touch too familiar. 

Once they were clear, he mounted the horse and took the rein, leaving Dean to hold on for dear life as they fled. 

It was only once the horse was exhausted did he dare stop. The sun was already high in the sky, and the poor beast had earned a rest. 

He had paid no attention to what direction they’d gone and as he let the horse drink on the banks of some unknown river, he wondered where they were. They’d simply have to make camp here and then look for a village, preferably one with an inn, and get their bearings. 

And then what, he did not know. 

He turned to Dean, ready to scold the prince again, but the words died bitter in his throat. 

Dean was silent, his eyes blank as he stared in front of him. Dried blood still caked his face and his clothes were soiled with sweat and dirt. He clung to the bag he’d packed in a daze, as though it could shield him from the nightmare his life had become. 

Instead of cursing the prince for being a damned fool, Castiel forced himself to take in ten slow breaths. He kneeled by the prince and gently said, “What happened?”

Dean blinked, still in a daze. “What did you say?” 

“What happened?” he repeated. “What did you do?” 

A shudder ran through him and Castiel thought he might sob, but he squared his shoulders and met Castiel’s eye. 

“I have heard for years of my father’s sins. I snuck into the dungeons once and saw for myself. It was monstrous, and I knew only a monster could order such things. But as prince, what could I do? He is king. Was king…” 

“And you talked of it?” Castiel prompted. “With Azazel…?”

“With many, but Azazel was the only one who had a solution. The others were sympathetic, couldn’t wait to back my rule when it came time, but they never offered to take action. Azazel had a plan.” 

“To kill the king.” 

“He said it would be painless. Poison acts quickly. He said he knew other nobles that would support me. They had basically told me as much themselves, though never knowing of these plans. I thought it would be an easy transition… I thought… I thought it would go smoothly. No bloodshed, my father excluded.” 

Naive fool, he thought not unkindly. “You were mislead.” 

“I suppose I was. You tried to warn me, I wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry—” 

Castiel raised a hand to silence him. Dean had much to atone for and many to apologize to, and Castiel was the least of his worries on that score. They were alive, for now, and Castiel would forgive Dean much worse. 

“The explosion? If it was poison, why attack the garrison?” 

Dean frowned. “I was worried there would be an uprising when they found out it was poison. If the army was weakened, I could come to power before they could regroup. They’d accept it, right?” 

He looked at Castiel earnestly, as though he still believed it was Azazel’s treachery that was the only misstep in this ludicrous plan of his. 

Again the impulse to tear him apart rose like bile in his throat. He was loyal to his prince, truly cared for him, but he was very much the boy he now appeared to be. As good as his intentions might have been, he’d done terrible things. He’d surely killed men and women who were merely going about their nights, who served _him_. 

The only thing that stopped him was that Dean was truly upset. He knew he’d been deceived and knew he’d done horrible things. He might not understand the full scope yet, but signs of remorse at least showed he was not the monster he thought his father to be. 

There was hope. 

Castiel sighed. He didn’t want to talk of this anymore, it would only serve to upset them both. There was nothing Dean could do right now, from here, and they still needed to _survive_ this insurrection that Dean had unwittingly started. 

“We need safety. Azazel likely wanted to use you as a puppet king, or leverage you in some way for his own advancement, perhaps even to the throne. He will pursue us, either to capture you or kill you outright. Is there anyone you trust? Anyone with the power to protect you and help you mount an effort to re-take what’s yours.” 

If such a person existed. He wasn’t even sure he could trust Dean’s judgement in this, though he had few other options. It wasn’t as though _he_ had any rich, powerful noble friends to protect Dean. 

“Uncle Bobby,” Dean said, then said, ‘King Robert of Sioux Falls,” when he saw Castiel’s blank look. “His kingdom is strong, their army large. Azazel would never dare attack him and he would be hard-pressed to send assassins after us.” 

“And your uncle would help you re-take the throne?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps not, once he hears what I’ve done…” 

“But he’ll keep you safe.” 

Dean nodded. “Yes, I have no doubt of that.” 

That would have to do then. They would make for Sioux Falls, as soon as they figured out where they were. 

“Very well. Wash up, try to sleep, and we’ll move on in a few hours.” 

Dean hesitated but did as he was told. It would always be strange, to tell the prince what to do and have him listen, but he thanked his lucky stars that Dean didn’t argue. While he hadn’t trusted his instincts before, hopefully he did now. 

It was the only way he could ensure Dean’s survival. 

~ ~ ~

They rode two more days blindly before Castiel found traces of a road. It was only wide enough for a single horse or perhaps two men side by side. He doubted any of Azazel’s men were venturing this far out of the way of the major travel networks. 

Not yet, anyway. 

They followed the road as it weaved through the forests and hills, leading them to a small village of perhaps ten homes. There was an inn, thank the gods. It was in ill repair and likely only had a few rooms, but there were no horses tied out front. They should be able to get a meal and a decent night’s sleep. 

“Travelers, bless me!” a woman said when she entered. “Will you be needing a room?” 

“And supper, if possible. Hay for our horse.”

The woman nodded, wiping her hands on her aprons after tending the fire. “I have some stew and ale, bread and cheese. Might have some figs or apples.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Castiel said. He guided Dean to an empty table near the hearth. “Stew, ale, and bread would be wonderful.” 

She nodded and disappeared. 

Dean sat, eyes wide as he took in the empty room. “I’ve never been in an inn before.” 

“Best not get used to it. We’re only here to get our bearings.” 

Dean looked adorably disappointed before he mumbled agreement. While Castiel appreciated Dean’s compliance, he could not help but miss his usual charisma. He longed for the confident prince who’d taken all he’d wanted from life. 

From him. 

He wondered if this more muted version of Dean would become the norm, or if it was merely in response to the events of the past few days. Time would tell, he supposed. 

“You from the castle?” the woman said conversationally as she poured their ale. It was dark, thick, and would likely be just as filling as the stew she’d set before them. “I hear a bunch of people left after the attack.”

He startled slightly, then calmed. News always traveled faster than one would expect. It would only take one traveler, one who might not even have any firsthand knowledge, and this whole village would know the rumors if not the truth of that night. 

“We are,” Castiel said. The simplest lies to pass off were the ones grounded in truth. “My friend here worked the stables. I was on night watch.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “You a deserter?” 

“I served the king,” he said lightly. “The king is dead. I reckon my service is done.” 

“Fair enough,” the woman said with a shrug. “Sounds like there’s no king at all. Both princes are missin’.”

“Both?” Castiel said with feigned surprise. “Missing or dead?”

“Missing is what the word is, but who knows. It’ll be days before we hear the truth of it, I suspect.” 

Dean was a fair actor and did a good job masking his curiosity. He intently focused on his stew, soaking each piece of bread thoroughly before eating it with a slurp. 

Castiel wanted to press for more details, but did not let himself. It would serve no good to appear more interested than he should be. A man quietly exiting the army would not care for the fate of the throne nor those involved in seizing it. 

“We’ve perhaps gotten turned around on the road while we traveled,” he said casually. “Where are we?” 

“A good three days north of the castle, more if you’re on foot or got a wagon to take. East of here are the major cities, the ones that’ll want to hire a soldier,” she offered. “Plenty of stables that way, too.”

“Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind.” He gave her a faint smile and then let the woman go about her business. 

He knew the layout of the kingdom well from his time marching through it. North was well and good for escape, but Sioux Falls lay southeast. Their choices were to either backtrack as they headed due south on the roads and hope Azazel’s men didn’t find them (assuming there were men looking for them, and Castiel assumed Azazel would not rest until he had at least one of the princes in his grasp)... or taking the longer path east and then south. 

Castiel brooded over it as he ate in silence. There were no other travelers, no chatter that could mute their words, never mind that it had been days since either had the luxury of a real meal. Dean was clearly ravenous, enough so that Castiel gave him his share of the bread, but they did not order more. They could not afford to draw more attention to themselves, and they perhaps could not afford the coin, either. 

The woman appeared shortly after they finished to direct them to their room. It was decently sized, though the single bed took up a great deal of the space. Most importantly, there was a lock on the door and a window large enough they could climb out of it if need be. It would do them well. 

Dean flopped onto the bed before Castiel had even shut and locked the door. He groaned as he sank into the mattress and blankets. They were stuffed with straw and Castiel could already tell the blankets would be thin and scratchy, all far worse than Dean had likely ever imagined, but the young prince luxuriated in them. 

“I never thought I’d miss a bed so much,” he grumbled through a yawn. 

“Enjoy it. I don’t know if we can afford inns the whole way to Sioux Falls. He’d decided to take the longer path east then south. It meandered through the hills and plains of that region, but it would be safer than going anywhere near the castle where people might recognize them. If it were just him, he had half a mind to simply go through the woods in a direct line. With the prince, that was completely impossible. 

Castiel went about the work of taking off his armor. It wasn’t the fancy, over decorated one he’d been given when he’d become Dean’s bodyguard, but his old, well worn army issued one. It was light enough for travel, but damn if he didn’t ache from carrying it so long. 

Gingerly, he removed the piece over his shoulder. The wound had crusted over with dirt and grime and blood. He did not yet worry about infection, if only because it was not warm to the touch and he could find no traces of pus. It would heal clean, if he ever took the care to wash it. 

“You’re injured.” 

Castiel spared a glance at the prince and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Let me help you.” 

“That’s not necessary—” 

The prince ignored him, manhandling him to the edge of the bed until he fell backward. Castiel sat there, looking up at Dean. The prince’s eyes were still that lovely shade of green, though troubled now as they had never been before. After taking so much from others, after wreaking such havoc on his own kingdom, perhaps Dean just wanted a chance to do _something_ right. 

“Very well,” he sighed. “I need to clean and bandage it. We’ve no bandages—” 

Dean tore a strip from his cloak and dipped it in the basin of water. “I got it,” he said, then set to work first cleaning and then dressing the wound. His touch was tender, his fingers nimble, his expression solemn. 

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” he whispered when he was nearly done. “You only got hurt on my account.”

“I’m your bodyguard,” Castiel pointed out. “It’s my job.” 

Dean was quiet, then whispered, “You served the king. The king is dead. Your service has ended.” 

Castiel sighed. How wonderful that his own words could come back to bite him. He took Dean’s hands, felt the slight tremble in them, and kissed them. 

“I served the king, yes, and I serve him still. You are heir to the throne. You are my king. My service is yours.” 

“I’m no king,” Dean said quickly. “I don’t deserve it.” 

“I may be no expert in the matter, but I’m not sure that matters. It’s also too soon to say what you do or don’t deserve, or what type of king you’ll make.” He could tell that Dean was shutting down, so he changed tacts. “Come, we’re both travel weary and sore. Let’s sleep.” 

Dean came willingly to his arms and within moments they were both asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long stretch between updates! I've been out of town a lot lately but my schedule should normalize soon, which will hopefully result in more consistent writing time :)

Castiel woke, as he had many nights before, with Dean wrapped around him and a hard cock pressed to his ass. This time, though, he knew there would be no lazy sex to greet him this morning. Dean's mood had soured more and more since they left the inn and the meager comforts it offered. While Dean had dreamed of revolution and the throne, he'd never bothered to spend a night outside the castle walls, making their current predicament that much harder for him to bear. 

They'd settled on the safer, longer path that steered well away from the capital. The last thing they needed was to be apprehended, especially now when the circumstances were murky at best. Yes, Azazel had let the charge but that didn't mean he was still in charge now. While Castiel doubted things could get worse for Dean, he didn't want to tempt fate. 

Ignoring Dean's morning wood, he sighed and pulled away. There was no point in wishing the prince's libido was what it had been. Dean had roughly and very drunkenly fucked him against a tree some two or three days ago, but he'd immediately seemed ashamed of himself for reasons he would not confide in Castiel. 

He'd touched neither drink nor Castiel since, excepting at night when the cold forced his hand.

"I miss my prince," Castiel mumbled to their horse, leading him away from his grazing and down to the stream. "Though I think my prince was doomed from the start. Too naive to go like that forever."

The horse snorted sympathetically before bowing his head to drink.

Castiel sighed and patted the poor creature's side. 

There were times when Dean's repentance was genuine, his drive to do better and learn from his terrible mistakes. In those moments, as awful as it was to admit it, Castiel thought perhaps it would all be worth it. The lives lost would at least do good in the long run off it made Dean a better king. 

Those guilty moments were growing fewer and farther between. They were sandwiched between petulant rants that Azazel was a traitorous bastard (as if Dean was not?) or long, sullen silences were Dean said nothing at all. 

"He's young," Castiel said to the horse. "He's young and he's been spoiled all his life. Honestly, things could be much worse."

The horse stopped drinking and stared at him with incredulity.

"Oh what do you know. You're just a horse." A gentle tug to the bridle and they walked back to Dean. "And I'm just the fool taking to a horse and protecting a fugitive prince."

He heard rustling by the campfire and shut his mouth. The tide of their relationship had turned lately, putting Castiel nearly on even ground with Dean, but it left him feeling off balance. He appreciated that the prince deferred to his expertise, truly he did. It was a sign of respect in his abilities and a show of trust that he yearned to live up to.

… And yet he well and truly missed his headstrong prince. He hadn't been immune to Dean's flirty charm and he felt the lack of it now. There were no smiles, no jokes, no orders given with a lower. While much of this would be out of place given their current peril and Dean's monumental regret, the fire that had drawn Castiel in seemed all but extinguished. 

He tried not to think about that. None of it mattered if they didn't get to Sioux Falls in one piece. Once they were safe, Castiel could focus on reinvigorating Dean's spirit. 

"Did you sleep well?"

Dean had tossed and turned all night, as Castiel well knew, but such niceties were all they had left of their former life.

"I'd have slept better in the dungeons than out here. Is every fucking inch of this first covered in rock?"

"It's a forest at the foot of a mountain, so yes." He tied the horse to a tree so it wouldn't wander too far and set about finding food for breakfast. Their rations were low but not depleted; it was time to consider a stop at another inn. "Would you prefer jerky or the last of the bread?"

Dean had born their earlier difficulties well, almost with regal grace. Now he looked worn and defeated. "I'd rather eat my damn boot. That jerky is inedible and the bread's moldy."

Neither was true, though he supposed to a prince used to better fare it night as well have been.

Castiel licked his lips. Dean was looking for a fight, he could tell, and he wasn't sure whether to give in or even how to go about defusing the situation. “Sire—”

“I’m not your  _ sire _ anymore,” Dean spat. “I’m not your Majesty, your Highness, your Lord, I’m  _ nothing _ . I killed my father and now I’m  _ nothing _ . Why do you bother following me around?” 

“You will never be nothing, sire—” He cut himself off when he saw the rawness of Dean’s pain at the title. “You are not nothing, Dean. You are my prince.”

Hearing his name caused a visible jolt to go through the prince. His eyes went wide, and Castiel could see the fire leaving them. His shoulders slumped and he turned away.

“I’m no prince. If that’s why you’re still here, you can leave.” 

Castiel hesitated. He would not leave. He couldn't. His own feelings for Dean aside, he didn't have it in him to abandon him. It would mean certain death for Dean, either in these woods today or on a soldier's sword tomorrow. 

And Dean knew all this, surely. Did he  _ want _ to die…?

No, he couldn't. He might crave it in his darkest moments, but Castiel knew better. He'd sworn to make things right, and there was enough pride left in him to see it through. 

He stepped forward and gently urged Dean to turn around.

"You are many things to me," he whispered, the weight of his confession threatening to steal his voice. "You are— _ were _ my prince. My charge. My lover. For all of that, I would stay. Though I stay now not for what was, but for my hopes as to what might be. That you will be my king one day… and perhaps a lover still, though I crave to call you a friend foremost, if such things are permitted to lowly men like myself."

Dean stared at him, numb and unseeing. Castiel feared he had overstepped or the words had washed right over Dean, to be ignored and forgotten. 

Instead, Dean sprang forward. He threw his arms around Castiel's neck and a heavy sob wracked through him. Castiel unsteadily returned the hug, kissed the prince's head, and held him tight as he cried.

"Shhh, it's okay. It's okay, Dean. It's going to be okay…"

~ ~ ~ 

Dean's mood improved after that, but only marginally. He made efforts to engage Castiel in conversation, which at first delighted Castiel… until he realized they had very little to talk about. Their lives up into that very moment had been very different. They might have been in the same position now, but the paths that led each here were like night and day.

Dean was here essentially by choice, good or bad; Castiel was here by chance. 

When Dean heard of Castiel's life, his color paled and he could not look at him.

"Your parents sold you as a slave." His voice was mercifully devoid of emotion; it was left to Castiel to guess how Dean felt about the matter.

For his part, he shrugged. He'd hated his parents for a long time. His life at home had been good by comparison, and life as a soldier was by no means easy. He was lonely, his body abused and worked harder than it ever would have been, and he had nothing to his name but his reputation. 

And then he'd toured the kingdom on campaign. He'd seen through adult eyes how hard it could be to make ends meet, the sacrifices that needed to be made just to keep going and hope tomorrow was better. 

After that, his resentment faded. He wasn't happy about it—that was his right, after all—but he couldn't begrudge his parents making one difficult choice instead of another. 

"They did what they thought they needed to," Castiel said simply. "Right or wrong, it's done."

"You didn't even choose to be my bodyguard. Your life went to shit because of other people's decisions on your behalf."

He placed a hand on Dean's and squeezed gently. He waited for his prince to turn and face him.

"Perhaps, but there's no one pulling my strings now. As you have pointed out, I can leave at any moment. I'm not bound to you if I don't wish to be. I'm here because I choose to be, remember that."

Dean wasn't mollified by that answer, and he stopped asking questions. Stopped offering answers to Castiel's polite questions, effectively killing all hopes of conversation.

So much for being friends, then.

"We should head back to the main road," Castiel said. It was a peace offering, a way to give them an escape from the downward trajectory of Dean's thoughts. "We're low on supplies and the horse could use a day's rest."

Dean mumbled his assent, visibly perking up at the hope of sleeping in a bed.

Deciding to find an inn and actually finding one were two very different tasks. Castiel had kept sight of the roads while they kept to the trees, but it didn't make them any closer to a village after they crossed the vegetation and followed the overgrown path that meandered through the forest with a slight downward slope. It was near dark when they saw the first signs of human habitation, ones that made them push on well after dark.

"You must be weary to be waking the whole house so late," grumbled the innkeeper as he let them in. He was old, tired, and Castiel was forgiving enough to assume his bad temper was due to them waking him up. "There'll be no food or drink til morning, and you'll have to do with the room by the kitchens. Loud as anything, come morning, but I won't have you disturbing the other patrons at this hour."

Dean mustered up the energy to look indignant, but Castiel shrugged. He put an extra silver coin in the man's weathered hands and thanked him for his trouble, the clear opposite of what Dean wanted.

To their surprise, the room was actually quite large. They'd have to start the fire themselves, but there were two wash basins, a bowl of over ripe fruit, and two beds.

"I'll take the one by the door," Castiel offered when he saw Dean at a loss.

"Oh." The prince's shoulders slumped. "Yes, that's fine."

Castiel licked his lips before offering, "I don't mind sharing, if you'd prefer…"

"No," Dean said quickly. "No, it's alright. The beds are too small for that and we need our rest."

Unsure if he was being rejected or Dean needed space to broad, Castiel nodded. It would do better of them any good to lay awake, waiting for the other to make a move. 

No, they were exhausted and did need their rest. Castiel especially would be to remain sharp and focused until they were back on the road. Long enough had passed that surely the whole kingdom was aware of what had happened. Whatever lies were being circulated about the prince's, at least a few rumors would have greedy men and women looking out for them. There were no doubt some pretenders trying to claim fame and glory for themselves. They needed to do their best to avoid all that, keep their noses down, and get out of there. 

Sioux Falls was still some days away, and gods willing, they could make it without any trouble or undue attention.

A warning prickled at the back of his neck. The gods had kept him alive through countless battles, but otherwise they'd never been particularly kind to him. Why should they decide to grant him any favors now.

_ Because you owe me, _ he thought rather harshly.  _ For all that I have lost, for all that you will continue to deprive me, grant me this one thing.  _

_ Let me get Dean to Sioux Falls safely. _

The low fire cracked but otherwise the room was quiet. 

_ Ah well _ , Castiel thought as he climbed into bed. It was cold, lumpy, and far bigger than he needed or wanted.  _ Guess it was worth a shot… _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the chapter i've been dreading to write for some time now XD 
> 
> and on that ominous note, enjoy!

****Castiel woke with Dean wrapped around him, arms so tight that Castiel could hardly breathe. It took some work to escape his hold, and his heart broke when he saw the clear sign of tear tracks pushing aside the days of dirt and grime on his face. As gently as he could, he got out of the bed and tucked Dean back in. Castiel had never needed much sleep, but Dean had grown a prince, due more than his fair share of indolence.

Dean might as well enjoy some sleep now while he could; the bed was by no means as fine as the ones at the castle had been, but it was a far cry from sleeping on the ground with nothing but their cloaks for comfort and warmth.

 _That’s not true. You have each other for warmth…_

He shook his head to dismiss the thought. Unlike Dean, he was all too aware of the imbalance their relationship has always held. First it was the handsome prince charming a man who could not by rights say no… and now it was the scared, wanted youth doing his best to keep his one supporter on his side. Hopefully they would find a better balance when they reached Sioux Falls.

… Or fall back into the same routine. Castiel honestly couldn’t bring himself to mind. His service—be it his sword or his body—belonged to Dean, so long as Dean would have him. 

As quietly as he could, Castiel washed himself and dressed. He would not be able to escape the faint smell of moss and sweat that clung to his clothes, at least not without washing them, but he wished to be somewhat presentable. Satisfied, he slipped out of the room and into the over bright and loud inn. 

There were men and women alike dining at the long tables, though most seemed to have finished their meals and were more preoccupied with drink. Castiel scanned the crowd without much interest. They seemed to be the usual fare of travelers, a mix of those on a long trip for trade, those visiting family or friends in far off places, and men and women looking for work. He silently counted those that obviously had weapons and deemed their numbers too small to worry about, should they even care to pay him any attention at all. 

Halfway through his meal of moldy cheese and lukewarm broth, a few of them did deem Castiel worthy of their time, or perhaps merely a convenient source of amusement.

“Oy!” called a voluptous, drunk woman with a velvety voice and rich, umber skin. Her armor was well made if not old and damaged. It had seen better days and was in clear need of a polish, though Castiel knew that would matter little to its effectiveness. She eyed him shrewdly, her manner too familiar, and Castiel assumed her to be the leader of a trio of sell swords. “What brings you this far south? You lookin’ for work?”

Castiel finished his bite of cheese, licking his fingers clean and ignoring the tangy after taste. He’d been briefly spoiled in Dean’s company and this was a far cry from that. Luckily his time in the field with soldier’s rations had made taste the least of his concerns when it came to food. 

“You have work to offer?” he said after consideration. 

The woman snorted. It seemed she looked not at him but through him. “No, I was hoping you might. Where you from?”

This was tricky. He put his inept knowledge of the kingdom’s lords and ladies to work. “East of here. Lady MacLeod.”

The woman scowled at him. Fuck, he’d caught her interest. “I hear she pays good coin. Why you leave? You fuck her loud-mouthed son or refuse to fuck her?”

Her companions laughed. They didn’t seem nearly so interested in what Castiel had to say, thank the gods. 

“She pays alright,” he conceded, and licked his lips to buy him time to think. “I hear they pay more at the capital. Lot of lords and ladies scrambling for power. Thought I might try to make a name for myself there.”

“You’re in luck. I got an old mate who’s saying as much. Azazel’s got the castle but there are plenty of other rich fuckers trying to raise the gold for an army. Never mind the small fortune some ‘ll pay for news on the princes.”

“They still missing?” Castiel sipped his ale. He was not particularly interested in what this woman had to say. Her news might be newer than his, but considering who _he_ had traveled here with, not so fresh as his own. 

“So they say. My money says Azazel’s done killed one or two of the poor bastards off.”

“Why would he lie about it then?”

She shrugged, black curls spilling over her shoulders. “Keep people busy lookin’ for ‘em while he buries what’s left? Besides, the people got no love for King John, but the princes claiming their birthright puts all the nobles in a worse position. Kill ‘em quick until they know who comes out on top.”

Castiel couldn’t deny there was some logic there. “I guess I’ll find out more when I get there.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” the woman said with a leer. Her friends nodded, now eyeing Castiel more intently than before. “We’re headed that way. Bigger group comin’ in, we can probably use that as leverage for better pay.” 

Considering Castiel in no way wanted to head anywhere close to the castle, the proposition was troublesome at best. Instead of saying as much, he made a show of considering it. 

“When do you plan on setting out? My horse will need a day or two more rest.” 

He hoped the delay would be enough to put them off. There was money in speed, after all, and this woman was all about her damned money. 

“We can wait a day or two,” she said with an open smile. “Got some mates I’m hoping ‘ll catch up with us anyhow.” Castiel was already cursing before she added, “Who’s the friend you brought with you?”

“Friend?” he asked, his surprise getting the better of him.

“Heard three voices last night. Was damn pissed to be woken up so late. Luckily I had a half bottle of wine to help me fall back asleep.” She held up her nearly empty glass of mead to prove her point. “So I reckon the innkeep, that’s one. You makes two. So who was the third?” 

All of Castiel’s instincts narrowed in. This was dangerous, this was bad, this was 

“A friend from Castle MacLeod. Another soldier, though greener than me. Convinced to come with me more to keep me warm at night than the good he’ll do in a fight, but…” Castiel shrugged and threw a wink when he saw the woman’s friends leer. 

“Well well.” The woman perked up. “That does make it worth our time to stay, assuming your mate there wouldn’t mind warming some other beds at night.” 

Castiel snorted. “You got silver to spare?”

That earned laughs and sloshed drinks from all three of them. He didn’t care for the predatory look in their eyes, but he comforted himself knowing he’d cut them all to pieces before they ever laid a hand on Dean. 

They turned the talk to bawdy jokes and inappropriate gestures. Castiel was used to this game from nights around the watchfires with his fellow soldiers. He knew how to laugh and play along, even had a joke or two to add. As soon as he politely could, he excused himself from the conversation. 

He made a show of taking some ale and food to his yet unnamed, ungendered friend, licking his lips when he added they were tired out from the night before, and then made twice the show of stumbling drunkenly to his room. 

The door clicked shut behind him and he paused, his heart racing and his breath ragged. It was always the same when the adrenaline first kicked in, and he took the necessary moment to calm himself before he set to action.

“Dean!” he hissed, daring not raise his voice above a whisper. “Get up and get dressed. _Now_.” 

Dean jerked awake. He looked sheepish at being caught in Castiel’s bed, then confused to find himself alone and Castiel’s arms full of food and drink. 

“Wh—?”

Castiel finger a hand over his lips. “Make as little noise as possible. We have outstayed our welcome. I will pack, you need only drink and get your boots on.” 

Dean opened his mouth to either protest or question, but snapped it shut and nodded. Compliance was an odd look for him, but he had learned to read Castiel’s mood and trust him in the rare moments he actually gave an order. He stumbled slightly out bed, looking absolutely mortified at the small noise it caused, and quickly went about getting dressed. 

By the time Castiel had wrapped their scant new rations and left a few coins on the dresser for the innkeeper, Dean had downed his beer and looked scared but alert. 

“You did well,” Castiel praised with a kiss to Dean’s temple and a silent clap to his shoulder. “Have you ever by chance climbed out of a window?”

Dean’s eyes went wide as he shook his head.

“Then thanks be to the gods we’re on the ground. I’ll boost you out.” 

The window was a tight fit. They made more noise than Castiel would like, so he lifted the small, sturdy table and used it to bar entry into the room. It warranted a few more coins to the poor innkeeper, but Castiel saved them should he need to bribe some stablehand for their horse. 

He followed Dean out the window, glad that they were at the back of the inn and near the stable. Such good favor would not last them long, and it was best they make as much use of it as they could. 

There was indeed a stablehand, a young boy of ten, who worked fast and eagerly once Castiel flashed three brass coins. He readied their horse and promptly ran to the market to spend his questionable earnings. 

“Hold on,” he warned Dean, then kicked the horse and headed due south. He silently thanked the poor horse for obeying so readily. It really had earned more rest than he’d been able to give the beast, but speed was the only thing on their side right now. It had gotten a full meal of good straw and Castiel would give the poor thing one an apple as soon as he deemed it safe.

Who was he kidding? They would not be safe until they were within King Robert's walls. Even then, that was putting a lot of faith in Dean’s estimation of his “uncle.” 

Dean clutched tightly to him. He hadn’t questioned when Castiel told him they needed to run.

He had Dean’s faith.

He supposed he could spare some of his own for Dean.

~ ~ ~ 

Three days. 

Three days of silence, traveling by night and hiding deep in the woods by day. Three days off the road made Castiel hopeful they’d outrun any possible pursuit and that they could push their horse at full speed again on the open road. 

Three days should put them within a day and a half of Sioux Falls’ borders, at any rate. They could make it. 

Their rations were low, he argued to himself. Dean looked as haggard as the horse did. Castiel’s own nerves were wearing thin. Desperation outweighed caution. He’d seen enough battle to know when the latter was preferred but the former was the only way out. How many times had he beaten the odds? 

_Just one more time,_ he begged as he urged on the horse. _Just one more is all I ask…_

They rounded a bend in the road and Castiel had to rear the horse sharply to avoid the mini blockade. 

“Oy!” the familiar woman called, looking every bit the cat who’d caught the canary. She had every right to be, what with ten armed men and women blocking any reasonable path forward. Tall, proud, and every bit the warrior he'd feared she was, she was an imposing figure to be sure. “See we meet again, ay?”

Castiel said nothing. He drew his sword. He heard Dean draw his dagger, as much good as it would do them. 

“Aw, there’s no need for that,” the woman called. “I never did get a name…?”

“Nor will you,” Castiel called back. “And there is a need, so long as you remain where you are. Let us pass, no one need get hurt.”

“Put down your weapon and _you_ don’t need to get hurt.” She gestured to her party. “We’ve got you well and good outnumbered. You got a reputation, even if there’s no name to it, but I ain’t leaving here without the prince.” 

Dean gasped from behind Castiel. Castiel didn’t flinch.

“Nor am I.”

“Then join us. We mean him no harm.”

“I heard the same from the men who attempted to take him on the night of the uprising. They only meant to rape and bruise, I think was the offer they made. His life was all they promised.”

“I can promise _no harm_ ,” she said seriously. “‘cept what my men need do to apprehend him. That’s on you and him, though. No conscience’ll be just fine.”

“You’re a sellsword,” Dean yelled, voice trembling just so. “Your conscience is clean regardless.” 

She spit. “I serve my house. I’m not for sale. Lover boy is, though.”

Castiel stayed firm. His mind raced with possibilities. Eleven fighters but only three horses. Two of the fighters were untested, if the quiver in their swordhands was any indication. The woman, the leader, was not on horseback. She was likely the most skilled, or close enough that he should assume as much. They wore the same crest, the same banner, the same armor. There was no point in going for her, then, they’d follow their orders to the end. 

All of this he took in. His odds of survival were slim. Dean though… 

“You’ll not touch him,” Castiel snarled. “You’ll let us pass or you’ll wish you had.”

The woman was unimpressed. “You’ll give up the little prince or you’ll die trying to keep us from him. Or worse, if you make this harder on us than need be.” 

Castiel brandished his sword.

“Would it help if I swore we did not serve Azazel or any of his lot?” 

It would not, and they both knew it. He could no more trust her now than when they first met at the inn. Less, even, given the circumstances. 

“Pity. I hate to see loyal men die for no reason—” 

Before she could finish, Castiel set to work. He snatched Dean’s dagger away, more afraid of what he might do to himself than anyone else, and pushed him rather forcefully from the horse. 

“Run!” he yelled, then didn’t spare a second thought to Dean. Dean was on his own in this, and it was for Castiel to buy him time. He charged, keeping his focus on the three enemy horsemen. 

Taken aback, they hesitated. Castiel took advantage of the weakness; he threw Dean’s dagger at one of the horseman, the one poised to charge Dean. He aimed for the soldier himself, knowing damn well the dagger wouldn’t do enough to the horse. If he could incapacitate the rider, it would take too long to ready another for the same mount. 

The dagger buried itself in the meat of the man’s shoulder. The aim was perfect, avoiding the heavier parts of the armor and going straight into his flesh. He screamed, tangled himself in the bridle, and Castiel knew he was out for the count. 

The two other horseman, along with a few of the foot soldiers, were next. They came at varying speeds, and Castiel used his knees to guide his charger between the two mares bearing down on him. Both hands on the sword, he swung first left and then right, each stroke finding its mark and sending their targets flying off their horses and the horses themselves running in a panic. 

The next blows were not his own. Swords came, one wounding his poor horse and knocking Castiel to the ground. The next hit him, one after another. Most clanged off his armor, but he felt the bruises they would leave as well as the gashes of the swings that met home. 

He’d done enough, though. He’d given Dean a head start, a fighting chance to escape. They were close enough to Sioux Falls, he could make it if he’d learned anything from their time on the road. 

He closed his eyes and waited for the end. Bloody and gruesome, like he’d always expected as a king’s soldier. 

Abruptly, the swords stopped. He vaguely heard a whistle and the sound of footsteps. His head swam, but he forced his eyes open. 

The woman had called off her soldiers. They abandoned Castiel and chased after Dean. 

No. 

_No!_

Pay attention to _him_! 

It cost all the energy he had left to rise to his feet. Correction, stagger to his feet. He reached for his sword, but it was gone. Still, he pressed on, aiming right for the bitch who dared take his prince. 

He didn’t have the strength to do more than swing feebly at her. It was pathetic how easily she deflected the blow and eased him to the ground. 

“I meant what I said,” she said soothingly. “I won’t hurt a hair on princey’s head, ‘less he makes me. You on the other hand…” She shook her head and chewed the inside of her lip. “I suspect you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” 

Noise, distant and fuzzy but loud, drew his attention away from the woman. Fuck her, anyway. Turning his head made him feel sick. Bile rose in his throat at the movement, slow and sloppy as it was, and then the nausea intensified as he pieced together the scene before him. 

Three soldiers restrained a kicking and screaming Dean. 

To Dean’s credit, the soldiers were in worse shape than they’d been when they’d gone after him. Castiel could see bite marks, scratches, pieces of dirt and muck in their hair and on their armor. Dean had tried, as much as a prince could. 

They both had.

“Die,” the woman sneered. She pushed Castiel and he fell uselessly onto his back. His fingers twitched uselessly for steel that was no longer there. “Or don’t,” she said with a laugh. “Just know that if you come after your prince, you’ll end up dead anyway.” 

Castiel wanted to claw voice box out to shut her up. 

She turned to Dean. “Any last words for your knight in shining armor?”

A trail of blood leaked from Dean’s busted lip, his left eye swelling where he’d been struck. No harm, Castiel’s ass. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said. “Sorry for everything.”

“Ahh, Cas. Our unknown hero has a name.” The woman’s sickly sweet smile couldn’t be more fake. “Well, Cas, know that Prince Dean is in good hands. Better than yours, anyway.” 

She kicked him in the side and he gasped in pain. Her kick had been well aimed, for she hit a sword wound he hadn’t noticed until then. 

She blew a kiss at him, then proceeded to turn her attention to what was left of her men. Castiel could take pride in that little thing, that he’d slowed them down and taken some of them out in the process. 

It would have to do. 

“You three round up the horses. You tie up the prince. We leave as soon as we’ve got the horses ready to go. Save the best mount for His Majesty here, the others for the wounded. If they can’t ride, they’re staying behind and I’m sure if this one survives the night, he’ll have words with whoever’s left. I’ll need…” 

The rest of her words faded beyond his ability to decipher. As he lay in the mud, his own blood staining it, he watched Dean. Dean stared back, looking more miserable and pathetic than Castiel could ever remember seeing him. His energy, his life dripped out of him, but he dared not even blink. These were his last moments looking upon his prince. He would not waste a single one.

He was numb to the world around him when they finally dragged Dean from his line of sight. Weakly, he tried to follow, but his body protested. The last of his strength leaving him, he blinked back against the oncoming darkness. Once, twice, almost a third time, and then his world disintegrated into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guesses on who our troublesome female is and where she's taking dean? ~~honestly i'd be surprised if you could figure it out since i haven't tagged for those characters yet...~~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to dean and cas' ~~long~~ separation XD
> 
> i've added some things since last chapter (including some additions to the previous chapter to give more descriptive detail to the soldier in charge of dean's capture, though even then i think maybe my portrayal isn't up to snuff) - check the tags if you're interested for some more character info (some of which is spoilery)

Castiel was sure he was dead.

The world was fuzzy, his body barely cooperated, and he could barely think at all. He was a vengeful ghost, a pathetic shade, a lonely wraith.

He was a fucking failure, that's what he was.

His feet carried him. He walked and walked and slept and walked. Everything ached, but it slowly convinced him he was alive. He was alive to endure the full knowledge of his failure. 

It felt much like when he'd been on campaign, marching beyond the point of exhaustion. He'd never been this injured then, though. There was blood caked to his skin and his clothes. Bruises everywhere.

He welcomed the pain. He deserved far worse for letting Dean down. He'd accept this and everything else fate dolled out his way. Again and again, he'd take his due punishment.

His prince was gone. He hadn't been strong or clever enough. 

It was over.

No one bothered him. Gradually, the road filled with people going about their business. They stared, he was sure of that, but none dared approach. He could feel the dried blood, the injuries making him limp and cough and ache. Not enough to kill him, apparently, but enough to make him a spectacle. 

It wasn’t until he arrived at the large wooden door that he even realized where he was or what he was doing. 

“You want something?” a guardswoman asked. She scowled at him, eyeing his ruined clothes and dented armor. “We’re not looking for soldiers.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, only to find his throat too tight to allow the words to come out. It took some effort before he managed an ill sounding, “I come with news of the king’s godson.”

“The king’s godson?” she asked skeptically. “What news? How do you have it?”

“I was with him until some two days ago, I believe.” Had it really been so long? “I was his guard.” 

The woman nodded over a few more guards, some as escort, the others to continue watching the castle entrance. Though mindful of his injuries, they did manhandle him to his knees before the empty throne. Soon a herald marked the king’s arrival, followed swiftly by his queen. 

“You Dean’s bodyguard?” the man demanded. 

“Are you King Robert?”

“What, you think I wear this crown because I like the aesthetic? I am, and if you’d like to not be tried for murdering my godson, who I distinctly do _not_ see here—” 

“Castiel!?” 

The whole room turned at the youth’s cry. Sam pushed his way past a guard half-heartedly trying to keep him out of the throne room, but he came barrelling in with Sully in tow. 

Thank the gods, they were alright. 

It only made his own failure sting more. 

“Cas!” Sam nearly knocked him over as he hugged him. “You’re alright!” He pulled back only to look at him, frowning. “Where’s Dean?” 

“That would be the million dollar question, wouldn’t it?” King Robert drawled. 

Facing the king would have been enough—he might not owe fealty to King Robert or Sioux Falls, but it was his responsibility and Castiel shouldered it like he had all the others he’d been given in his life—but now his confession, in front of Sam of all people, was more than he could bear. 

“I— We—” 

Sully took the cue and drew Sam away. It allowed Castiel to fall forward, to prostrate himself before them. His fixed his eyes shut and did his best to relive the adventure that brought him here, a broken, lonely man. 

“I got Dean out of the castle.” His voice carried throughout the silent throne room. “We fled, not knowing where to go. Dean said King Robert would offer him safety, so we then made south. We were not far from the border, surely less than a hundred miles, when we were attacked. The soldiers, they bore the crest of a house I do not know. I— they— “ 

Again he choked and could not force out the worst of it. 

_I lost him_. 

“Well?” the king barked. “Where’s Dean? He dead?” 

Castiel blinked open his eyes and stared up at the king in shock. He could not read the man’s expression despite his best efforts to search the man’s eyes. He was angry, yes, but Castiel could not understand the rest of the emotion he saw carefully held at bay. 

“I do not know,” he confessed. “He was only mildly hurt when they took him. They’d insisted they wanted him alive and well. I know not where they took him, or I’d be there now instead of here before you. I know not if he’s alive, if that bitch of a woman kept her word or not. If he’s dead…” 

_If he’s dead, I fear I’ll tear the whole kingdom apart to avenge him._

_Or more likely, myself die in the attempt._

The king appraised him before turning to Sam. “Well? He worth trusting?”

Sam nodded urgently. It warmed Castiel to see the prince so readily come to his defense. “He loves Dean, I think. He wouldn’t have let anyone take Dean if he could help it.”

“How many men were there?” Sully asked. 

Castiel shrugged. “Ten, perhaps. Only three on horseback.” 

“You went against nearly a dozen men?” the queen asked, impressed. “Alone? For Dean?”

He’d nearly forgotten she was there, and now he took her. She sat comfortably in her throne, in all ways giving off authority and confidence in a way that made her seem an equal to the king. He was instantly annoyed that Dean had not told him more, not warned him off his “aunt” or even mentioned her name so that he might properly address her now. 

“What does it matter how many men I fought,” he grumped, “if I was not successful at saving him?”

The king sighed. “One man against ten is understandable,” he said with a dismissive wave. “So long on the run, no one would have been surprised should you have been overtaken by fewer. As much as it grieves me that we lost the boy, I am impressed with your service and your loyalty to the boy, idjit that he is.”

Castiel frowned at the pejorative paired with the fond, exasperated tone. He’d heard disparaging things about the prince before, of course he had, but he hadn’t expected them from the boy’s uncle of all people. 

Either not noticing or (more likely) not caring about Castiel’s confusion, the king waved forward some men. 

“Because Prince Sam here is willing to speak on your behalf and because of your vigilant efforts to keep Prince Dean safe, you are under my protection and welcome in Sioux Falls. Have him cleaned up, his wounds tended to, give him some decent clothes, and find him a room.” 

“Castiel.” He looked up to the queen, who eyed him shrewdly. “We have much to discuss, but you are not to step foot in this room or to seek us or Sam or even Sully out until you’ve had a full night’s rest. You hear me?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” The words came out without any conscious thought, and he colored before correcting, “Yes, Your Grace.” 

She smiled benignly. No harm done, then. 

~ ~ ~

He’d been injured in plenty of battles, sometimes requiring the care of a healer or the attention of another soldier. He’d expected to be shown to a small room and given a basin of water. At most, he was wondering where the private baths might be and if they’d allow him a small corner of it. 

Never in his life did he expect to see the court healer. The expert attention of washing and dressing his wounds, massaging his strained muscles. Servants attended him in the baths as well, ever mindful of the healer’s work but intent on scrubbing him clean of his journey. The clothes given to him were of fine linen, the nicest he’d ever owned, and the room he was shown to was surely meant for a noble and not the likes of him. 

And the food they left him. The food was delectable, something Dean would want for himself and perhaps share with him if it occurred to him. It rarely had, unless sharing was a precursor to sex. 

It made him profoundly uncomfortable. 

Not only did he not _deserve_ any of this, here he was enjoying these creature comforts beyond his station while Dean was gods knew where suffering gods knew what. 

He was too shaken to rest as the queen had ordered, but true to her word, the guards would not let him seek out anyone. They asked if he needed anything, then barred his path when he said he did not. 

With nothing else to do, he forced himself to lie down on the bed. He refused to sleep, not when there was so much to be done, so much to talk about. Dean surely needed swift action to rescue him— 

It was some time later that Castiel woke from a deep slumber. He was momentarily unable to figure out where he was or why he was there, reaching for a sword and a lover that weren’t there. Slowly it came back to him and he nearly sobbed. 

He grew more depressed as he went about making himself presentable. He was no one, the king would likely have little interest in hearing from him. Sam might wish to hear how his brother had fared on their journey, but a man such as Castiel had no means of approaching a prince for an audience. 

As soon as he stepped out of his room, however, he learned very quickly that he was no longer in Lawrence. 

“You’re awake!” the guard said with surprise and nearly fell over. She was a young woman, likely Sam’s age if not younger, and she struggled to right herself and look the fierce warrior she no doubt thought a guard needed to be. “Would you like to see the king? Or would you like to eat first?”

Castiel started slightly. “Is seeing the king an option…?” he asked hesitantly. 

She nodded. “I’ll go inform his steward. I don’t know if he’s at his leisure now, but I’m sure it won’t be long.” 

Castiel did his best not to look surprised; he expected to perhaps see the king again once or twice more, at the king’s pleasure. It now seemed that the king had been waiting on _his_. 

“Thank you,” he managed to ask. The girl bowed— _bowed!_ —and then scurried off. 

He relaxed in his room and decided rather quickly that he would not hold it against the girl if she was not able to arrange a meeting. She was young, naive, and in no way at fault for thinking things to be different than they were. 

She arrived not half an hour later, ready to escort him to the throne room. 

Huh. 

He spent the walk through the castle wondering what his life would have been like if his parents had lived in Sioux Falls. This was a good king, one who seemed more… _involved_. Was King Robert the type of man who would allow parents to sell their children into slavery to pay off their debts? Would he intervene to help the people?

… Did they even need such help?

He was so lost in his own thoughts, rewriting his own history, that he nearly missed his introduction to the court. 

“Sir Castiel of Lawrence. Their Majesties King Robert and Queen Ellen welcome you and hope you are well.” 

The guard looked quite pleased with herself, and bowed deeply to the room before backing away and taking a post with the other soldiers. 

“I hope you’re well rested,” the queen drawled. She looked regal and elegant, but more approachable than even Sam had ever seemed. Castiel was struck again with how different this land was, and he how much he wished Dean were Robert and Ellen’s son. 

“I am,” he said. And he was. He had not felt so well in some time, perhaps well before Dean had enacted his plan weeks ago. “How can I be of service?” he continued, and bowed even deeper than the guard had. He owed these people much, and would owe them even more if they helped him save Dean. 

“We need to find Dean,” King Robert said. “You said you saw the crest of those that took him?”

Castiel quickly rose. “I did.” 

The rest of his day—evening? he’d surely slept through a day or two, and the dull light through the high windows told him nothing—was spent providing as much information as he could. Every move he and Dean had made, both before and after the unfortunate insurrection, and everything he could remember of those last few moments with Dean. The crest would be easy to place once they consulted Sam and their ambassador to Lawrence (three woman on horseback, swords raised), and they would strategize from there. 

“And when you find him?” Castiel asked eagerly. “How quickly can we mount a rescue?”

King Robert and Queen Ellen shared a look. Their silent debate was lost on Castiel until it was the king who turned to him. 

“Well that’ll depend who has him and where it is.”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“We love Dean,” the queen said quickly. She placed a protective hand on her husband’s. “We’ve known that boy his whole life. Met him as a lil’ babe fresh from his mother’s arms. We’d risk as much as we can to get him back—”

“That don’t change that he’s in another kingdom,” King Robert interrupted. “Dean’s my godson, and if it were only my own life I was risking, I’d go after him in a heartbeat…”

Suddenly Castiel understood. He saw the workings of foreign powers that he’d only read about or seen in the abstract, not like the emotional, fervent responses of King John. 

“But you have your people to think about,” he supplied. He hated it, but he could not fault him for it. Rationally, he could not argue that the king’s duty was to his people. Castiel’s only loyalty had been to the crown, and he’d only ever been one man. Being a king, a duty bound king at that, must complicate things.

“Ay,” the king agreed. “I can’t send soldiers in all willy nilly. Azazal, that rat bastard, has the castle and power at the moment. He’d attack with the drop of a hat if Sam’s to be believed.”

“He is,” Castiel said. Of the brothers, Sam was the more thoughtful, even tempered one. Castiel agreed with his assessment, and was more than willing to trust Sam in matters he was less familiar with. 

“Then I can’t send good men in to die and risk innocent civilians at home who might suffer under the wrath of a madman. Until I know more details, I can’t in good conscience make a decision.”

While part of Castiel wanted to claim disgust and rage at the king’s inaction… it was honestly better than King John would have done. It could be his own son out there, and he’d either ignore him or send in thousands of men as fodder, uncaring of anything but the end result. 

It’s a shame Dean was raised by one and not the other. He could have benefited greatly from such tutelage.

He didn’t like it—not at all—but he begrudgingly had to respect it. 

Castiel licked his lips. “I understand the need for… discretion. Surely you could send assassins or a rescue party—”

“And if they’re caught?” Queen Ellern said. “If they’re tortured and killed for their efforts? We don’t get Dean, they lose their lives, and we end up with a political nightmare that could mean much worse. Even with all this upheaval, Lawrence is a strong kingdom and Azazel is a dangerous man. All decisions must be weighed, for the cost and the benefit.” 

“... And if a lone soldier, with no ties to this kingdom were to go alone?”

Again the royal pair shared a look. This time, though, he thought he detected disapproval in the king’s eyes and pity in his wife’s. 

“Let’s not make any rash decisions,” the king said diplomatically. “We’ve got time yet to draft a plan.”

“And while you wait here, what happens to Dean?”

“Considering we don’t know where the hell he is, your guess is as good as mine,” the king snapped. “I know you’re just a foot soldier, but most of us tend to wait for the whole picture before we rush in, throwing our lives away.”

“And since you’re a soldier,” the queen added, “perhaps you’ll listen when we _order_ you to stay put.” 

“Am I confined to the grounds?”

“Yes,” they said together, not a second’s hesitation. 

“Look,” King Robert said. “We’ll do right by you for Dean and Sam’s sakes, but as you so aptly pointed out, you ain’t part of this kingdom. You’re a guest, and as a guest, you would do well to remember your place. Don’t overreach, boy.” 

It had been some time since anyone had addressed him as ‘boy’ and it made him bristle. 

“I could save him,” he said, _begged_ , his last hope of getting through to them. “I need only know the direction—”

“Forgive me for being blunt, but if you could save him, he’d _be here_.” 

Sufficiently put in his place, Castiel’s jaw snapped shut so hard it hurt. He stood there a moment in stunned silence before he swiftly bowed and then turned on his heel and left.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update. I won't bore you with the with the work complaints, but hopefully I'll have a more regular updates in the future! My goal is once a week :)
> 
> Also....  
> I am aware Robert = Bobby and Richard = Dick. This is actually a relic of an earlier planned plot point regarding Jo's actual father, Bobby having a brother, and seguing into some Sam stuff. I had already put some of that Richard stuff in before I realized: a. that plot stuff is needlessly complicated without really moving the actual plot forward and b. this story is Cas POV and he gives exactly zero shits about any of it. So I decided to drop it.... and didn't bother to change the name back.
> 
> So basically... your confusion is justified, is completely my fault, and I'm going to go through and edit to change it to Bobby for future readers and in later chapters. (And will post this info in the author's notes for the next chapter lol)

Word traveled to him slowly, likely because he was a nobody in another king's land. He was eventually told that Prince Sam had indeed recognized the crest as he described it and the king was sending spies and scouts into the lands of Lawrence to attempt to find him. 

"Where, though?" Castiel hissed. It was Sully who'd snuck off to tell him, and Castiel knew better than to expect a long visit; he was dutiful to his prince, as he should be, and would not wander off for too long. 

"The crest belongs to the Amazons, a small group of nobles."

Castiel had a vague familiarity with the name. Not for the nobility, no he'd never had occasion to see them and they'd never deigned to visit the capital, but they often sent soldiers as part of their tribute to the king. They were exceptionally gifted warriors, and Castiel was always pleased to have some of them in his contingent. 

What they would want with Dean, though, he had no idea. If they weren't at court, what possible connection might they have with Azazel? Did they have their own plans?

Sully cut him off before he could ask. "The king is hoping his men will find out where Dean is and what they mean to do with him. They might be open to ransoming him, but the problem ist he Amazons are rather…" He paused, his time with Sam giving him far more tact than had been Dean's wont. "Elusive," he settled on. "There are many families who use that crest, and it may take time to find the ones who are actually responsible for Dean's kidnap."

"I could go," Castiel said at once. It was foolish to say so. Sully was in no way able to grant or deny him such a request, and if they decided towards caution, he would quickly report his eagerness to leave to the prince and therefore the king. Still, Castiel could not contain himself. Dean's whereabouts might not be  _ known _ , but Castiel was not unskilled at interrogation. He could find him, he could rescue him— 

"The king won't allow that," Sully said, with five words chopping all of Castiel's hopes to bits. He did at least look regretful about it, little good that did him. "He'll have you under lock and key if he thinks you'll leave, and I beg you not to try it. We all want Dean back, but it's foolhardy to rush off without more information. The Amazons have holdings in a large area, and we don't know their sentiment. If you went to the wrong castle and caused trouble, there's no knowing what ill might befall Dean." 

As intended, the words made Castiel's racing mind ground to a halt. Rushing in without a plan was well and good when dealing with the weak, the incapable, the uncoordinated, but these nobles had been able to not only find Dean but overpower Castiel to capture him. They were trained and resourceful, and apparently had a very specific purpose if they would put such effort to take the prince.

"Will the king make a move to rescue him if need be?" Castiel asked. 

Sully looked at a loss. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Sam thinks he might, if he thinks he can win, but the Amazons complicate things. Their territory is not near Sioux Falls. It's not as though they're on the border and a well equipped, well trained unit could stealthily attack for a rescue. If they aren't willing to negotiate, it would take an army to get there…"

He trailed off and Castiel instantly imagined such a drama playing out before his eyes. A foreign power invades during the tumult of a coup. Even if they claimed they wanted to restore order and the true heir to throne, it would look very bad indeed. It could mean war, a war that King Robert very clearly was not willing to risk. 

Not even for his godson. 

After very loudly cursing the gods, Castiel turned a pleading look to Sully. "Surely Sam would speak on his brother's behalf—"

"He has, but it won't matter. He's a prince in a foreign land. He's a  _ boy _ . A smart, very well educated and talented boy, but still a boy. King Robert will do as he sees fit, even if he listens to Sam's pleading. And I promise, Sam has pleaded."

With a sigh, Castiel slumped against the wall. "I believe you."

"Good," Sully said with no small amount of relief. "Please remember that you are not the only one here who cares for Dean. Your claim to him is strong, I'm sure, but it is the newest. No one wants any harm to come to him. Please, I beg you,  _ please _ don't do anything rash. You mean well, but this is now the game of kings. Politics and messengers and the gods' will. Do not endanger him for your own selfish desire to see him."

Castiel waved a dismissive hand Sully's way and walked off. He heard the truth and warning in Sully's words, but he cared for none of it. His prince needed him, now perhaps more than ever, and he was essentially under house arrest. He was no fool, he knew he'd likely be killed if he attempted any unsanctioned rescue effort. Even if he could escape the grounds, it was likely King Robert would send many troops to apprehend him before he could ever reach the border and cause any trouble. 

Fuck them. He'd bide his time, allow the king his attempts at diplomacy or whatever he was masquerading his cowardice as, and let them do the hard work for him. They would find out exactly where Dean was, and he would learn that truth, and then he would go. 

And hell dare try to stop him.

~ ~ ~

Time passed both too quickly and far too slowly. 

The days dragged on tediously. There was nothing for Castiel to  _ do _ . When his body had recovered well enough, he set to training. The physical exertion was grounding, and it gave him some meager opportunity to socialize. The soldiers, guards, and knights in the king's employ were well trained and disciplined… and though curious, they were polite enough not to question him on his past. They were friendly and accepting in the way of soldiers, and the familiarity of it was a blessing. 

They were also skilled in forms of combat he had barely even seen, never mind learned. They beat him more often than he cared to admit, and he relished the opportunity to improve his skill. He was bested once, and he would  _ not _ allow it to happen again. 

Each day he kept track of the messengers who came and went. The guards he was most friendly with soon learned of his interest and kept him informed of who came and went. A messenger to Purgatory, one from Eden, several from villages, towns, and castles within Sioux Falls… and scant few from Lawrence. They all came back empty handed, with no news of the prince and barely any news of what was happening but one kingdom away. 

So Castiel trained. He drank more than he used to, though not so much as Dean ever had. He made friends that he did begrudgingly admit he liked. He occasionally saw the king and Sam, though neither seemed particularly happy about it. Annoyance, guilt, and frustration always prevailed in those brief meetings, and Castiel soon grew as sick of it as they no doubt had. 

Three, then four months passed before Castiel could even truly account for the lost time. 

Four months without Dean. 

Gods, what if he was dead? What if the worst had happened while Castiel was idle, while he grew lazy and indolent and complicit in his lost prince's kidnap?

How would he ever forgive himself?

Before he could truly fall into the depths of depression that threatened at every idle moment, the news he endlessly awaited finally arrived. 

A messenger from Lawrence. A messenger with  _ news _ . 

It was time. 

Castiel didn't even bother at pretenses. The very instant he heard, he rushed to the throne room and burst in upon the meeting. 

"Castiel," the king drawled. "What a surprise to see you here. In my throne room. Where you have most certainly not been summoned."

His wife made a noise under her breath, a reproach he thought, though perhaps he was mistaken. 

"I would have summoned him anyway," Sam interrupted. He looked as eager as Castiel did, though he had the rank and privilege that didn't not require him to hide it. "Castiel deserves to be here as much as any of us." 

"It appears," the king said, looking between the queen and Sam, "that I'm outnumbered in my own castle. You don't outrank me, even if you have crowns."

"And yet I don't see you fightin' to kick the man out," his wife said with benign amusement. "Let him stay. Saves us all the effort of telling him later." 

The king exaggerated an eye roll but did not comment further. Just as well, since it merely saved Castiel from causing a scene should they try to forcibly remove him.

"Well, you heard the lady. Continue," King Robert prompted the messenger. 

The man must have been well acquainted with both king and queen; he barely bat an eye at the exchange, and instead promptly rose from a kneel. 

"Prince Dean has been found. He is safe, he is unharmed, and he is likely to remain so."

Castiel let out a strangled gasp of relief. Thank the gods, there was that at least. 

"Where did you find him?" the king asked. 

At this the messenger flushed in embarrassment. "We did not find him, Your Majesties. His presence was announced by the Amazons themselves. They have issued a formal claim to the throne." 

Queen Ellen shifted in her seat, leaning forward to assess the messenger more shrewdly. "A claim to the throne? On what grounds?"

The messenger took a deep breath. Castiel felt that breath as if he himself took it, felt his entire life grow taut like a rope very likely to be cut at a moment's notice. 

"One of their kin claims to have married the prince. The lady claims she is with child by the prince, and the Amazons demand that Azazel and all other pretenders yield the throne to its rightful heir. Heirs," he corrected belatedly. 

There was a stunned, heavy silence that filled the hall. It was so quiet, Castiel could hear his heart pounding beneath his chest. He could hear the dejected whimper Sam let out, the defeated sight he king let out, the damn birds taking nest in the ceiling above the throne room. He could hear it all, and yet he could not believe a word of it. 

"Which noble?" the king asked. "Who's married the poor idjit?"

"A Lady Lydia, heir to one of the major houses. The marriage was some months ago, likely right after the prince's disappearance and subsequent capture. They must be very sure of the pregnancy, if they have waited until now to make a move. Our remaining agents are converging on the castle, hoping to find out more news besides what the family themselves has put out. They are also assessing the castle and surrounding villages for weaknesses, should His Majesty wish to strike."

The king laughed with no sign of true mirth. "Attack and then what? Do I take my godson and his new wife and their unborn child? And for what purpose? To put him on the throne that his in-laws now claim for him?"

"We have to do something!" Sam shouted, gods bless him. "We can't leave him—"

"They won't hurt him at the very least until the child is born," the king said. There was a dismissive note to his voice, one Castiel did not care for at all, and if Sam's bristling was anything to go by, neither did the prince. "They would be fools to act too harshly with Dean. A child is a good first step, but many die unborn or in their early years. They will want a second and a third to secure their claim before they dispatch him."

"You can't be serious—"

"Sam," the king warned. The prince's jaw snapped shut. He turned his attention back to his messenger. "Send a formal envoy and demand to see the prince. I want Jody at least in that party, and I want her to speak with Dean herself. Alone, if possible. I want proof that he's alive and well, as they say, that this marriage is real and a child is in fact on the way. I want Dean's own words on how to proceed, and I want it in writing if at all possible. I'll need it if I intend to act. In exchange for all this, I am willing to offer my support at this claim if they acquiesce and I can in turn assess Dean's will on the matter. Refusal to allow an audience will be seen as treachery, refusal to allow Dean to speak will as well, and I will want a messenger from them to accompany you back so that I can speak with them. Go by morning's light, and make haste. There's much to be done."

The messenger bowed low and then rushed out, avoiding everyone's eye in his single minded determination to do as he was commanded. 

It was only after he'd left that Castiel stepped forward. 

"I'm going with them—"

"Like hell you are," the king snapped. "The situation isn't as dire as we'd feared, but Dean is by no means safe. The last thing we need is a hot head in the mix to mess things up. While I do believe it would be foolhardy of them to hurt Dean without a living heir to the throne, let's not tempt them to do anything stupid. Push comes to shove, I don't want Dean being harmed as an option they consider."

"I don't—"

"Jody's a good knight," Sam interrupted. His voice shook, but as he stepped forward, he gained confidence. "She will do right by Dean, and we'll have a better idea of the situation when she returns. I don't give my approval to this situation lightly, I promise you. I'd gladly go myself to see him if I thought Bobby would allow it—"

"I'm glad you know better," the queen said. 

Sam tried to ignore her. "I really would. And I know as a soldier, as his bodyguard as his…" Sam gulped before continuing. "As his lover, it's hard to be objective. As his brother, I fully understand. But there's more at stake than just Dean. He's alive, it seems, and well. We must be content with that and not risk what we've found out for the sake of our own personal desires."

"Spoken like a king," Castiel sneered with no small amount of disdain. It was unfair of him, he knew that, but it was no comfort to know their words and decisions were backed by sound reasoning. He wanted  _ action _ . He wanted  _ Dean _ . He was big enough of a man to admit that's  _ all _ he wanted, his status in the world so inconsequential that Dean was his only true realm of concern. 

Fuck these kings and princes and nobles with their damn grabs for power. Fuck them for complicating things unnecessarily. Fuck them for stopping him. 

Sam was silent. He looked truly pained at Castiel's reproach, as mild as it was, and Castiel almost felt bad. Sam meant well, he knew that, but it did nothing to soothe his heart. 

"Do as you must, and don't be surprised when your inaction has consequences." 

As often seemed to be his habit these days, Castiel turned on his heel and left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no horse appearance this chapter 😂


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not a lot of "progress" in terms of plot here, had to lay some foundational things for later chapters first.

There was no need to bother with secrecy. He knew what he was up to, as did the king and queen if they put any consideration into Castiel's words. Without ceremony or ruse or any disguise of any kind, Castiel filled his days with training, seeking out soldiers who were skilled at the fighting style of the Amazons. His nights were spent in the castle library. He studied every book, every map, anything that he thought might give him an edge when he went after Dean. 

When was always the key word. If was not an acceptable possibility as far as he was concerned. 

He had indeed plotted out what he felt was the best route, both speedy but discrete, when it was Sam who came to him. 

He'd expected armed guards. House arrest, perhaps, and a confinement to his room. A constant escort would be effective and a challenge he'd considered. 

Sam was so disarming, with a true hold over Castiel's loyalty, he had no armor against such an attack. 

"Can I come in?" Sam asked nervously. He looked along the empty corridor, and Castiel noted that Sully was not present. That alone could explain the prince's nerves, since he was so unaccustomed to being his own keeper. It was something he would need to grow into, no doubt, as he became a man and not a wayward prince. 

"Of course," Castiel said stiffly. Dean was the only possible topic of discussion among them, and already he was on edge. 

Dean was always in his thoughts, but rarely spoken of. The other soldiers cared not, or maybe did not wish to antagonize him with intrusive questions, so there was no reason to say the name of his beloved aloud. 

Sam found the small, lone chair near the window and took a seat. He looked so awkward, prim and proper and way out of his depths. It was endearing, and Castiel could almost hear Dean's teasing words. 

Castiel wouldn ever utter such things himself, and so remained quiet. He merely shut the door and gavet he prince his full attention, standing at in a rigid soldier's stance. 

"I know you blame yourself for what happened," Sam said in a rush. "I know because I too blame myself. Dean did not say anything to me, but I knew he was up to no good. He'd changed. Twice, I think, though the more recent time led to this mess with Azazel." 

"Twice?" Castiel couldn't help but ask. "What was the first time?"

Sam looked surprised at the question, and his answer conveyed how obvious he felt it was. "After mom died. I was rather young, so I don't necessarily remember the before. I barely remember mom," he admitted, shame coloring his cheeks, or perhaps indignant anger. "Dean was gentler before. He followed the rules, he did not take so much advantage of the leisure the castle offered. But father changed, and then Dean did as well. He was angry. Defiant. He became the way he was when you met him, flippant and generally dismissive of his duties. Sully always told me I should—" 

Here, Sam cut himself off. Whatever Sully had instructed him, Sam clearly thought it was not appropriate for Castiel's ears. 

"He changed again after he met Azazel. I did not know that was  _ why _ he'd changed, not until later. I saw the changes, though. He talked like he was to inherit his crown at any moment, and I thought it was talk only. I shouldn't have. It was strange, it wasn't like him. He would rant for hours about all he could do, eventually, but he was always wistful. It was a point so far off that it but a distant blur on the horizon. If I'd been more diligent—"

"You are not at fault," Castiel interrupted. It pained him to see the innocent young boy shoulder the burdens of his brother. "I too saw danger and did not act sufficiently. I regret that, but I know it is not my fault. It was Dean's foolishness alone, and Azazel's manipulation of a prince who wanted to do good by his people. If this is what troubles you, I implore you to let it go."

Sam's face was the very picture of shock. 

"You do  _ not _ blame yourself—?"

"For what happened at the castle? No. I regret it, but the regrets are not truly mine. I did my job by getting Dean out of there unharmed." 

"Then why—?"

"I regret what followed. I regret that I am such an ill choice for bodyguard that I did not know King Robert would offer safe haven, and that we wasted time going north instead of south. I regret that I took Dean to that inn when we could have pressed on with our rations. I regret that I was not a good enough soldier to protect Dean in that last confrontation. Those were events within my power to do better, and I failed Dean in all of them." 

Sam was quiet for a long time. Not unkindly, he said, "You still have no cause for regret or guilt in any of that. I have heard your account, and I know from experience that you care for Dean. You did your best, and it is unfortunate that it did not work out in our favor, but that's the way of the world sometimes. You could have done so much worse by Dean. You could have failed to realize Azazel's nefarious intentions and let them capture Dean at the castle. You could have been complicit in his capture, at any moment. Sold him for a ransom or abandoned him. There was so much ill you could have done him, and you did not. Do not let chance and fate make you feel that you did not do the very best you could, given the circumstances."

Too choked up, Castiel mumbled an incoherent reply. 

“Dean would forgive you, at any rate,” Sam said with a certainty that Castiel, in his heart, shared. “He’s good at blaming our father first and foremost, and himself second.”

There were now sobs that threaten to close off his throat and leave him wrecked. Castiel did his best to contain them and silently prayed that Sam would leave him. 

That small mercy was granted him; Sam stood and made for the door.

"He loved you, I think," Sam said as he paused at the threshold. "I say that with the certainty of someone who was loved by Dean. He loved very few people, but those he did, he loved fiercely. In his unguarded moments, I saw that he felt that way about you. Please don't risk yourself. Dean is as weak as you and I when it comes to remorse. He must hate himself for what he did… and he will hate himself all the more if you were to die on his account. A rescue right now would be foolish, so I beg you to wait. If it's the only way to save Dean, I promise you, I will give you my blessing. Until then, please don't become a regret of my own. Don't make me regret that I couldn't stop you… and that I'll be the one to have to tell Dean."

His words found their mark, more surely than anything else he'd said so far. It pained Castiel to do nothing, but the prospect of being a source of pain to Dean… it was unthinkable. 

~ ~ ~

Sam’s words weighed heavy on his heart. He found himself neglecting the duties he’d merely days before found essential. His training was unenthusiastic, his research resulted in no more than reading and re-reading the same three passages over and over again. 

In the twilight hours, he found his only solace in sleep and drink, and he cared little for which took his burdens away. 

Sam was right. 

Sam was wrong. 

Sam was barely more than a child. He said pretty words that held some wisdom to them, but he was too young to understand the true nuances of the world. 

… And yet, if Castiel left and died for it, it would only bring  _ him _ peace. It would surely lessen the burdens of King Robert, though he alone stood to gain from it. The few people Castiel actually cared about, namely Sam and Dean, would be varying degrees of saddened by such news. 

With everything Dean had suffered, was possibly still suffering, he would not allow himself to be another burden to his prince. 

“That messenger better have damned good news,” he grumbled to a tapestry. “They better have Dean with him, or a ransom letter that the king will pay. They better or I— I’ll— I could— I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

It remained benignly indifferent to him. 

He’d never personally known the depths of depression some of his fellow soldiers fell into when separated from loved ones or after losing comrades in battle. He’d seen it, and could see his own fragile grasp on his mental health slipping away. As if in slow motion, he saw the inevitable fall towards inescapable sadness and self-loathing. 

His whole future, as pathetic as it might be, rested in Dean’s salvation, whether at his hands or another’s. 

As fortune would have it, he was on the castle walls when the party from Lawrence returned. Castiel nearly fell off and into the courtyard when they hailed the guards. 

“Where are you coming from?” asked Donna as she motioned for the gates to be opened. She was Castiel’s favorites of the regular guards, her ever cheerful attitude a light in the otherwise blackness of Castiel’s life. 

“Lawrence,” a woman called back up. “Donna, you know it’s me. Let me in and tell the king I bring important news.”

It was not this that had clued Castiel in, for she was on a black horse and lead another behind her, one that was painfully familiar as his companion from the capital. Her words merely confirmed what he suspected. 

“It’s protocol, Jody,” Donna said back, far too smug. “What should I tell the king?”

“That I have seen the prince, meet with him in person, and have letters written in his own hand. I can meet with the king immediately or wait for his leisure.” 

“The king might want to wait, but I doubt the queen or Sam will.” She nodded to Castiel and dramatically stage whispered, “Or this one. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him from hounding you until everyone’s all present and accounted for.” 

Her hand, gentle but firm, was already on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Thanks for that.” The gates were open now and she nudged the horses forward and her small party followed her. 

“I wouldn’t hound her—” Castiel protested, only to be immediately cut off by a cheerful laugh. 

“You would and we both know it. Do us both a favor and come with me while we take the  _ long _ way back to the throne room…” 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delayed update (I am trying very hard to do a weekly update with this), but I hadn't written all of Dean's letter by the end of last week so I figured I should put it off XD

**** Castiel fretted about how long it might take the king to arrange a meeting, and if he might dare exclude him. He also, much more quietly, wondered if there was any news for him specifically, or if they were all letters of state meant for Sam and the king. If there was but a single mention of him, an inquiry into his health, he knew it would go a long way to soothe his heart, especially if all other news was good.

In truth, none of his worries came to fruition. The king had their small group assembled in the throne room within a quarter hour, with Jody at the heart of the gathering. 

"My lord," she said with a short, quick bow that was more formulatic than showing any true deference. Castiel stole a glance at the royal pair to see if they took offense, but their own eagerness made them overlook the small breach in decorum. "I bring much news of your boy." 

"Is he alright?" the queen asked. "The official reports say he's well, but how does he look?"

Jody hesitated a moment. "Well enough, I'd say. He's not ill, he appears to have suffered no injuries except those that he took when captured. He is not in terrible spirits, but he isn't in particularly good ones either. He was very rarely left out of sight of his keepers, who are a Lady Naomi and her niece and his wife Lady Lydia. There were also armed guards, even on the one occasion I was allowed to be with him in private, including some of his original captors." 

Castiel bristled at that. That damn woman who'd caught him off guard, she was there with Dean when he wasn't. If she'd taken over as his personal guard— 

No, it was too insulting, too infuriating to think of. 

"Does he seem himself?" Sam asked, then stuttered, "Or rather, since I know you have rarely had the chance to meet him in the past, does he seem to rule his own mind? Are his words his own?" 

"As you say, young prince, I am no judge. I can only speak to what I saw, not if it is in any way out of character. I can also report of what I heard, namely that he has not been seen much in public and is not taking audiences with anyone save myself." Jody unslung the bag from around her shoulder. "You are all far better judges, and he has written a letter to each of you." 

Castiel's heart leapt, but he forced himself to calm down. She surely did not mean  _ him _ , only the royal parties involved. His family, not the failure of a guard who'd let him get in this mess. He was merely so beneath her notice she'd misspoken by mistake. 

"He wrote these letters himself?" King Robert asked. "You saw this?"

"I did. He was allowed into a study he claimed was for his private usage. I stayed with him the entire time he wrote each letter, spoke with him though very little, and as soon as he finished them, he sealed them in my sight and handed them over. I can attest he wrote them himself, and if there was any meddling from his host, it was prior to my visit."

"Good. Hand them over."

"With all due respect, sir," Jody said as she pulled back her satchel of letters protectively. "The prince was quite clear these letters were meant for the eyes of their intended recipients alone. Or perhaps first, since it's up to them to share them."

King Robert's eyes grew dark. "Just who do you work for, me or a foreign prince?"

"You, and you told me to obey the prince and aid him in any way I could. He trusted me, and as a knight, I'm not keen on violating that trust because you  _ don't _ have enough trust to go around."

"If there's something he don't want me to know—"

"Then it's probably private. Keep in mind that I have letters for you, his godparents, as well as for his brother and his lover. You can see why perhaps the contents of the latter two might not at all be intended for your eyes, and that they might contain things you do not  _ wish _ to see?" She paused, then dramatically added, "If I give them to you instead of their intended recipients, how is that any better than what you feared the Amazons would do? Do they have more integrity in this?"

The king looked as though he no longer knew how to breathe, and Castiel well understood the feeling. He himself could barely stay standing, since he had no way to deny now that Dean not only still thought of him, but had written him a letter. There was no one else here, he was sure, who could reasonably qualify as Dean's lover. 

He might have blacked out for a moment, since he had no memory of the king's response or anything else for that matter, simply Jody putting a thick piece of parchment in his hands. 

"I want to know the contents of these letters," the king said, even as he clutched his own possessively. "I don't expect a reading of it or a copy, but I expect to know the gist of each and every single one of them. We'll meet tomorrow morning over breakfast to discuss them. Until then, enjoy your private words from our lost prince."

With no more invitation than that, Castiel took the nearest path out of the throne room and rushed out as quickly as he could. 

~ ~ ~

He couldn't bear to break the seal. 

It was Dean's signet ring, he'd recognize it anywhere, and it was pristine despite the long journey. Breaking it meant destroying another part of Dean, no matter how insignificant, and he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. 

There was also the more troubling matter that Castiel feared he would not be able to  _ read _ the contents of the letter. He had much improved in recent months in his reading, simply out of determination. So much of his time had been spent reading books for clues on how to rescue Dean, that he'd gotten much better in the process. 

Those texts were all written by professional scribes, though. Men and women trained at writing neatly and legibly. Dean was a prince, with a stylized hand Castiel had puzzled over in the past. 

What if he truly could not read the words Dean had wanted to share with him? Who could he ask?  _ Could _ he ask? He was so selfish, so greedy for pieces of Dean that belonged to him alone that he didn't even want to attend the king's meeting tomorrow. 

(Except of course that the others would share their own news of Dean, and he again was too selfish to turn down such an opportunity for more Dean.) 

To buy himself time to think, to breathe, he headed to the stables instead of his room. 

The stablehands raised eyebrows at his presence, but one look at his cloak emblazoned with the royal seal of Lawrence and they kept their distance. With them out of the way, it was easy work to find what—  _ who _ he was looking for.

"Hello old friend," Castiel said, his voice far too rough, as he greeted his old companion. The horse snorted and stepped forward, sniffing him eagerly. Castiel spared a half smile and revealed the carrots he'd brought with him, pilfered from the kitchens. 

"Yes yes, you've a good boy and deserve a snack," he said indulgently. As the horse happily ate, Castiel ran a hand down his flank and inspected him. There was a scar, well healed but prominent, where he'd been struck during their capture. Other than that, the horse was in fine condition… and very obviously the same horse he and Dean had ridden from the castle. 

"Dean insisted I bring him."

Castiel jumped and nearly drew his sword as he rounded on the intruder. It was Jody, and slowly he forced his body to relax. 

"Why?" 

Jody shrugged. "For you, I figured. Said you'd know the horse, take it as more proof that he was alive and well. He wasn't entirely sure you'd believe me. Or heed his letter."

Castiel choked on a sob. "He spoke of me? To you?"

"It took him hours to write those letters. Sometimes, his hand would grow stiff and he'd rest, and we'd talk. He spoke of all of you, but his greatest worries were for you and his brother." 

"Me?" He could understand worrying about his younger brother, for Sam was now a disenfranchised prince. If Jody had told Dean of Castiel's survival and residence in Sioux Falls, what could trouble Dean on his account?"

"Says you're stubborn and likely to do something foolish. He stopped short of outright begging, but he made me promise to keep you put."

"I'm not— I wouldn't— He shouldn't have—" There was no defense he could mount, not with Jody staring at him in shrewd disbelief. "It's my duty—"

"To do as your prince commands, and I'm pretty sure that letter is filled with commands. So do us all a favor: read them, follow them, and pray Dean comes into his own power sooner than later." 

Castiel looked away, overcome with emotion. Dean had known, then, that Castiel was trying to get to him, that he hadn’t abandoned him. Or if he had given the treacherous thought any consideration, he was magnanimously absolving Castiel of any guilt or wrongdoing. It was too much, and it only fueled his desire to  _ get to his prince. _

“Read the letter,” Jody said, poking at his chest. It was clear she could see the way his thoughts were tending, and she didn’t like it. “Don’t you dare avoid it any longer. I’ll tend the horse, a gift for you unless King Robert says otherwise, and you can mope around together all you want…  _ afterwards _ . Go, or I’ll find Donna and we’ll personally escort you to your rooms and lock you inside.

Castiel dared not disobey her, or at least dared not openly defy her, and left after one last pat to the horse. 

Horse. What a terrible name. He’d need to rectify that soon with a proper name. 

He was relieved to see Dean’s familiar hand, but with a neater, more even stroke. It was legible, particular, and he couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped him. 

Or how his heart ached all the more for Dean.    
  


_ Castiel,  _

_ I’m sorry that I cannot be there in person to deliver these words, or that you cannot be here in person. Don’t be hard on my uncle, though. He’s right, it would be dangerous to have you here, all the more because they took me from you, and they know I am not exactly indifferent towards you.  _

_ I don’t know where to start… So much as happened, and yet so little. I suppose I should start with the most obvious.  _

_ The Amazons took me, as I’m sure you are well aware by now. They wanted me for the very obvious goal of using me to gain power, to put themselves on the throne. My marriage to Lydia was not my idea nor truly of my own accord, excepting that they would have given me me over to Azazel had I not agreed. You can perhaps forgive me for agreeing under such circumstances.  _

_ (And I almost do not write this, but please know I thought of no one but you on my wedding night. I don’t want to say more through ink, you deserve better, but that little I can selfishly give you so that you know I have not forgotten or forsaken you.) _

_ (I should also confess that I have had three glasses of wine to write even this much. Your letter I saved for last, for I feared how very much I owe you and how little I can actually repay you. I hope this small recompense for everything I’ve taken from you, freely offered or not, will do, for it has to.) _

_ I do not love Lydia, nor she me. I don’t think either of us likely to change our minds on the matter, but luckily now that she is pregnant we needn’t share a bed for the time being. She is a fine enough lady, perhaps might make a good queen, so I am thankful for that little. We get along, we are friendly, and by mutual agreement, we see each other but rarely. Meals, necessary meetings, that sort of thing. As fine as any royal marriage there’s ever been, so again I do not complain.  _

_ I confess only to you and to Sam that I don’t know what to do about the child. The child is undeniably mine (or rather, I don’t think so little of Lydia that she would stoop to nefarious means to conceive). In a few months, I'll have a son or daughter of my own... _

_ I don’t know how to be a father.  _

_ I have such a poor example, and what I did to him—  _

_ It doesn’t matter. They won’t let me near the baby, I’m sure, any more than they have to. In those moments where they hint as much, that’s when I feel both relief that I can’t do the child any harm like my father did… and also fiercely protective, for I have at least a counter example to work from.  _

_ They have let it known that I am alive and well, not just to you but to all of Lawrence. They have made it clear to Azazel that I've married one of their own and there is a child on the way, and that the Amazons fully intend to back me (and more importantly, the child) as rightful heir to the throne. They will wait until the baby is alive and well before making too much of a fuss, though. I also find they are more talk than action, preferring caution; if I had a damn thing to wager but my life, I would bet that they won't truly take anything by force without multiple children to use as leverage.  _

_ And that, right there is my future. To be a name and a bloodline and a captive, one they will gladly do without given time.  _

_ And even so, I beg, I plead, I order, I do whatever I can to convey the depths at which I need you to listen to my next words:  _ **_do not come for me_ ** _.  _

_ I do not fear for myself. My immediate future is secure. They keep me well fed, my rooms are lavish, I am provided all a prince of my ranking could want (with the obvious but important exception of my personal freedom, as well as your company). I do not fear the Amazons. I do not fear Lydia or Lady Naomi.  _

_ More importantly, I told them to tutor me in leadership. Diplomacy, strategic planning, all these things that I had a minor education in but so thoroughly ignored or misused to my own ruin. I need to be better, not for myself but my people should I ever have a chance to rule them, and they need to keep up appearances. They've accepted my demand, and I have already had weeks upon weeks of lessons.  _

_ They have allowed me to write to you, all of you, with regularity. I will not trust these letters to anyone save a familiar envoy from Sioux Falls and Jody and I have already made arrangements for her return in a few month's time. I will write to you, and I hope you will write to me. I am not disappearing, I am not to be locked away and done off in secret. _

_ Now that I have hopefully laid your worries to rest, I want to demand that you do as I ask so that you might put mine to rest.  _

_ If you (and yes I mean you specifically Castiel) step foot in the Amazon's land, they will have you killed. Hell, if you return to Lawrence I suspect the same will happen. Your life, your happiness, your well-being means too much to me, whereas my own is inconsequential in comparison. I have made my choice, and I hope you will respect it and keep your foolish self alive for me. I swear to you, by any gods that will take such a vow, that we will see each other again.  _

_ Stay alive until that day. _

_ So I end this letter, once again begging you:  _ **_do not come for me_ ** .

_ Forever yours and missing you greatly,  _

_ Dean Winchester _

_ P.S.  _

_ I have written these letters many a time, trying to find the right words to convey everything I've felt over these months along with everything you all need to know about my situation. Bobby's was the easiest and took me two tries. Ellen's took me three, mostly because I became so maudelain I had to tear up whole sections so as not to make her sad. Sam likewise I have spent three attempts, mostly so as not to overburden him.  _

_ Yours has taken me six tries to get it right, and even now I know I have said some things I should not have and left out a great deal I should have written. I'll never get it right, ever, much like the mess I'm in well shows, but I thought I should at least let you know I tried. _

_ P.P.S.  _

_ Please take care of dear Continental, the horse who would carry us from end to end of this accursed, unforgiving land. I hoped his good health and presence would soothe some of your fears. Please return the favor by making sure he is well, so that later when he is returned to me—and I absolutely  _ **_demand_ ** _ you return him to me—I know that you too have been well.  _

_ P.P.P.S. _

**_DO NOT COME FOR ME._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to speculate on dean's state of mind lol


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for another delayed update (i was doing so well with the weekly ones...), but this is probably a trend that's going to continue, especially with nano coming up. viva la nano!!

Castiel read the letter again, though it seared through his heart to do it. It was a necessity, a compulsion. Had he truly understood, with his inadequate reading abilities, everything Dean had meant? Was Castiel misremembering some detail here or there? 

Could reading it again make the ache in his chest dull for just a moment?

After several hours spent in such agony, Castiel wasn’t sure if he wanted to burn the letter or keep it close for further reading later. If he burned it, then the king would not be able to take it from him or make any demands… but he suspected Sam’s letter contained much of the same details, save the most personal, and neither the king nor queen would find themselves wanting for information, surely. 

So greedily, he kept it. He hoarded it like a dragon would a fine diamond or polished piece of gold. It was his, his alone, words that Dean had crafted with care for his eyes. 

He drank heavily that night as he continued to read it. He’d memorized passages by the time he passed out on his bed, somehow both less and more lonely than he’d been before the day had started.

If he dreamed of Dean, his soft lips and flirty laugh, his kiss and his embrace, that spark inside him that their escape had nearly snuffed out… well, who could blame him for such dreams?

It took him some time to rally himself in the morning. The not quite finished bottle of mead beckoned to him, but his head pounded enough as it was. No, he needed a clear head so he could think before the audience with the king. 

What was he going to do? 

There was the obvious, the thing he most wanted to do: go rescue Dean or die trying. 

He’d given in to the king out of necessity, to Sam out of pity and the underlying fear he was likely right about Dean’s wishes. Now, with Dean’s letter still in his hands, he had that confirmation. 

Dean did not want him to come. 

The reasons he gave and the true reasons there might be notwithstanding, Castiel was inclined to believe that Dean did not want him there. Dean knew too well how completely he commanded Castiel’s heart, his body, his will. If Dean wanted him, for rescue or companionship or any other reason, he would have said so. 

Which left other choices, since Castiel was still, unfortunately, an obedient servant to his prince. Dean had suffered so much already that he could not bear to bring him more distress. 

So that left Castiel with a wide array of choices, ones he had not yet considered. He’d secretly held out hope that Dean would beg him to come, or Jody wouldn’t be able to gain access to Dean and in indignant fury, he’d be able to lead a rescue party. 

Without Dean… what was his future?

Did he leave? Did he stay? Was his allegiance transferred to Sam, who did not need him at all? Was he  _ allowed _ to stay? If he was no longer useful to the king, would Robert allow his presence at court? Would he be forced to work with the other soldiers, or to leave?

If he had to leave, what would he do? 

Dean wanted him to write… 

A ball of anxiety welled inside him, and he very purposefully ignored it. He took a deep breath, one and then another and another, until it was manageable. 

He would stay here if at all possible. Sam would likely support him, or so he wanted to believe. If Sam already believed Dean cared for him—an impossible thing, but one that Castiel was slowly beginning to believe himself—then he would help Castiel stay close, if not for Castiel’s sake then for Dean’s. He could even show Sam the letter as proof manifest that Dean wanted to hear from him. 

And yet… in a moment of clarity, Castiel guessed he would not need Sam’s help. The king pretended to be hard hearted, but he sensed Robert would yield easily if Castiel asked to stay. 

Robert— _ Uncle Bobby _ , as Dean called him—was not John. He was not an ass, high on his own power and paranoid that people were trying to take it from him. He was reasonable, human, and obviously cared for his godsons. 

Castiel would be able to stay. 

Which meant… what, exactly? A job? A life of leisure that was some sick contrast to the cage Dean now found himself in, gilded as it was. 

It made him sick— 

Dean’s words flooded back to him, overwhelmed him. 

_ Focus on what your prince commanded. You are to care for the horse. You are to write to him. You are not to waste your life in some foolish, ill conceived rescue attempt. You will keep going for the time when Dean needs your services again, and then you will be there to help him in any way he bids you to. _

Alright then. He knew what he had to do.

~ ~ ~

"My wife informs me," the king drawls, giving his wife an indulgent look, "that forcing you each to read your private correspondence aloud for my own benefit is uncouth and unnecessary. She also pointed out that he likely gave the same information to all four of us, albeit in different tones, and any variation in his letters was not necessary. I don't need his brotherly words of advice that he likely bestowed upon Sam, nor the sweet notions he left Castiel with."

Castiel blanched slightly, though he could not help but notice that no one else reacted to the king's teasing words. They agreed, they accepted his relationship with Dean (though perhaps misunderstood its nature, to a degree), and beyond that there was nothing much to be said on the matter. 

Strange, very strange indeed. He was certain King John would have had him beaten if not worse for the liasson, yet it didn't bother King Robert at all. 

Before he could ponder the reasons behind their different views, King Robert continued. 

"So I will instead tell you what Dean said to me. If he told you more on the matter, you will interrupt to say so. If he told you differently, you will interrupt to say so. If your own personal interpretation of Dean's words or actions differs from what he has said, you will interrupt to say so. Am I clear?"

The queen and Sam nodded their assent; despite the lenience he had been shown so far, Castiel was all too aware of his own low rank and instead voiced a clear, "Yes, sir." 

"Good. So let me start with the political situation and then we'll do the personal matters like Dean's well being…"

They learned in quick succession that Dean was consistent in his message: the Amazons would not let him go, his marriage was a shame but one he was willing to take advantage of, he did not need rescuing at the moment but was not confident in his future after at least one heir survived childhood. Castiel also learned, though none of them outright admitted it, that Dean's plea that Castiel stay put was made to each of them. He saw it in the way they eyed him, the careful way they emphasized Dean  _ did not want rescue _ . 

"And Dean's mental state?" the king asked the room once they'd agreed on the facts. "Is he lying? Is he being manipulated?"

"Probably," Sam said in a clipped tone. Castiel's attention snapped to the young prince, surprised at his blunt and rather pessimistic one word assessment. 

"What?" Sam said defensively. "They took him against his will, violently. They forced him into marriage. They forced him into bed at least once, likely far more than that, to wring an heir out of him. He is being manipulated, and not very discreetly, but who knows what they're saying to him to make him so complacent."

Castiel felt sick to his stomach. It was not untrue, not a damned word of it, but having it laid out before him made Castiel's resolve to stay put again waver. 

"So you saying we should mount a rescue?" the king asked skeptically.

"Not at all," Sam said quickly, as though worried this were a possibility. "I want Dean back, but he's right. He's not  _ lying _ when he says it'd be a bad idea. Politically it's a nightmare, never mind that we risk a relatively stable position for Dean. We attack or get caught undertaking subterfuge and there's no reason to assume Dean stays safe and as relatively comfortable as he is. I'm merely pointing out that this strategic plan isn't Dean at all. He's rash, he's selfish, he'd want rescue instead of considering our position here in Sioux Falls. I think he believes what he's saying, it's just strangely out of character. They've gotten to him, somehow, and that's a concern moving forward." 

"If I may—" All eyes turned to Castiel, and he immediately regretted opening his mouth. He was no strategist, no politician, not even an expert on Dean. These three here, they'd known him far longer. If Sam thought this…

"Speak up, boy," Robert prompted, and Castiel shook his head to force away the doubts. 

"I don't disagree that the Amazons will try to manipulate Dean. They'd be fools not to—"

"This just an agreement, then?"

"Not quite. I'm not sure how much Dean really is under their grasp. Yes, this is not the brazen young man who arranged for his father's assassination. This is the young man who realized how monumentally he'd fucked things up and wants to do better." 

As he spoke, his confidence grew. Yes, they'd known Dean longer, but he'd  _ seen _ Dean most recently, the only one here besides Jody who'd seen him since the coup. He knew  _ something _ , had some meager intel to offer, and he would. 

"This is the young man whom I accompanied on the road, the one who fell into fits of self deprecation and depression because he'd known how great his failure was and just how far he had to go to make up for it. I read that young man in my letter, one who is trying to do better and think of someone besides himself for a change."

His words echoed in the large throne room. There was a moment of silence before the queen turned to Sam. 

"Sam?" she asked.

Sam looked unsure of himself, frowning as he considered. Instead of answering her directly, he focused on Castiel. "You're sure?"

Castiel nodded. "I am. I saw in my letter the person who knew he should be better if he ever wants to be a better king than his father. He doesn't know how, and the Amazons are offering him an opportunity. They're using him, as we well know, but I would like to hope it's a mutually beneficial relationship. For now."

"For now," Sam agreed.

"For now," the king repeated ominously. "Alright, we keep the status quo. Jody has agreed to continue visiting Dean to ferry letters back and forth without meddling hands getting involved, and until we have concrete reason to think otherwise, we will assume Dean is in his right mind. We will keep careful watch of what he says to us and confer with each other whenever we have concerns. We will have our informants keep special watch on the Amazons, on Azazel, and more importantly on the health of would-be Queen Lydia and her unborn child. Did I miss anything?" 

Again silence reigned. Slowly, Castiel raised his hand and waited for the king's acknowledgement. 

"Yes?"

"May I stay here? I would like to be close should you need me and so that I may write to Dean. I am happy to—"

"Fuck," the king interrupted with a laugh. "Is he kidding with this?" he asked Sam. 

Sam's expression was unreadable. "I don't think so."

"Boy—  _ Castiel.  _ You are welcome to stay as long as you want, as a guest of myself, Queen Ellen, and Prince Sam. If you ever change your mind and want to leave, let me know and we'll make arrangements for that too. You're family, now, since Dean and Sam have taken you in. I know that's a lot to handle, but you are. Odd, kinda distant family, but family nonetheless. Don't ask stupid questions again, you hear me?"

Too stunned to do more, Castiel nodded, mouth agape and his mind blissfully blank. 

"Good. Now all y'all best get to writing your replies to Dean. I want Jody to set out once she's rested and fit enough to do so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just fyi, i plan the next chapter to be epistulary and cover a lot of time. easiest way to move things forward to where they need to be


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no update... sorry about that, it was my intention to take november off for nano, but that project wasn't done at the end of the month so I kept going. it's still not done, but i felt an update to this story was long overdue - not fair to dean and cas to leave them separated forever. 
> 
> this chapter covers a lot of ground and is nothing but dean and cas' letters back and forth. i'm a little removed from this story, so sorry if there's a tone shift or i accidentally change my own canon XD

Your Majesty, 

I’ll admit, I do not know what to write to you. You are my lost prince, my ignominious liege whom I’ve abandoned to a fate you do not deserve. No, it does no good to berate yourself — you have made terrible, awful mistakes, but I know you seek to do better. It’s not for me to forgive you, however. My forgiveness, like all other parts of me, is yours without your needing to seek it. 

Forgive yourself. Prove to the kingdom that you deserve their forgiveness as well. You will have to earn it, as I’m sure you know better than I, but you are fully capable of rising to the challenge. You’ve mentioned you seek to use the Amazons and their tutoring to your advantage. Please do. 

More importantly, be careful. Do not trust them more than you have to. They will use and discard you, I have no doubt, if it suits them. I fear for you. You have the semblance of safety and security with them, a semblance and no more. Politics is a craftier sort of war than what I’m used to and thus I can offer you no more advice than that. 

I send Continental back to you. He is in good spirits, though I fear he will grow fat if he rests in any place too long. He has a fondness for apples and his preferred speed is a lazy trot. Let us do our best to write often, for his sake if not our own. 

Your Humble Servant, 

Castiel

P.S. 

Your brother has been helping me improve my writing. My penmanship is still lacking, though he says I have made great improvements. It is the primary reason for my delay in writing back to you. I wanted you to be able to read what I had written, and I did not want to do you the discredit of having an illiterate hand write to you. 

~ ~ ~

Castiel, 

I have a daughter. 

You’ll have likely heard the news before this reaches you — the Amazons are doing everything in their power to spread it far and wide that a new heir has been born, that she is strong, that she bears the name Winchester, etc. — but I cannot help but speak of her myself. I have so few things left in my life that bring me joy, so few people left that I love and who love me, that I want to share them with each other. 

I love her. She is beautiful and I hate the position she’s been born into. I will do my best to protect her. She will be raised to be everything I was not, and she will have all the training to make her a good queen, better than I could have ever hoped to be. We have named her Emma, an Amazon name apparently but it suits her so I have no reason to complain. They let me see her often, after all. 

Her mother is not well. This news is perhaps more of a surprise, since I believe they are hiding it. They hide it even from me, but Lydia and I have an arrangement and she does not lie to me. The pregnancy was hard on her and the delivery worse. She is weak, unable to get out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time. Healers come and go, and she is unable to nurse our daughter. 

It is unlikely there will be any more children. If she recovers and we were to have another, that pregnancy would surely do her in. Her mother I don’t think is so heartless as to risk her own daughter for another heir. 

I do not know what this means for me. If Lydia dies, they might try to marry me off again. I have been cooperating with them and their sometimes ridiculous demands, so I don’t think they see me as an immediate threat. At the very least, they will want Azazel out of the picture before they can cast me aside. An heir is well and good, but Sam is older and a boy at that. I myself have not ruled, and Sam’s claim is a legitimate one even if a “lesser” one. I do not begrudge him if he wishes to prepare for such a course of action. 

Lawrence is in need of a good ruler, whether that’s Sam now or Emma later. I don’t want someone like Naomi pulling too many strings nor do I want a man like Azazel anywhere near the throne, but I unfortunately have no one to blame but myself for that. 

Continental has indeed put on weight from what I remember. Write quickly. 

Yours, 

Dean

P.S. 

Your handwriting is perfectly fine. It’s  _ you _ , and in these days, all I crave are pieces of you. I beg you, send me a longer letter. I care not what you say. Tell me of the weather, what you’ve been eating, the court gossip, anything. When I read your words, it’s almost like you’re here with me reading them aloud. 

I miss you, with all my heart. 

Or at least the pieces of my heart that Emma hasn’t stolen away. 

~ ~ ~

Your Majesty, 

I have indeed heard news of your daughter, and I am pleased that you are so enchanted by the young princess and, more importantly, that you are allowed to see her. You deserve to know your daughter, as she deserves to know her father. I look forward to meeting her, in no small part because the day I meet her is likely the day I get to see you once more. 

They have not told us about your wife’s ill health. There are rumors, but it has been mostly wild speculation. I do not know if I should wish her well or not, and leave instead my wishes for your daughter. 

My days are very dull. Your godfather is too generous and allows me to stay in the castle in a room far too nice for a lowly soldier turned bodyguard, and he requires nothing of me other than that I make no “foolish attempts” to rescue you. I therefore am often chased off of guard duty when I attempt to help at the castle walls or gate. The soldiers allow me to train with them, to dine with them, to play cards or dice with them, but apparently not to serve with them. 

No matter. King Robert is a good man, but he is not my king. My king is currently a prisoner in his own lands and I am powerless to do anything but bolster his spirits in what little ways I can. 

There is a willow tree in the woods near the capital where I like to go. It is very beautiful, and I often wish you were here with me. I read, and sometimes I practice my writing. I have included some of my practice, which are mostly transcriptions of various passages I have read. You say my handwriting soothes your heart, and alas I am no great writer when it comes to my own words. Not yet, anyway. 

I know it was not what you had in mind with your request, but for now it will have to do. It takes me a whole day or more to write a single letter, and I cannot delay Jody’s return trip attempting to write more.

Know that I think of you, that I miss you, and that pray to any gods that will listen for your safety. 

Your Humble Servant, 

Castiel

~ ~ ~

Castiel, 

I cannot believe you sent me handwritten copies of history books and ancient tomes. Worst, I cannot believe you sent me copies of love poetry you’re reading. It puts me in the very awkward position of wishing the words were from your heart to mine, but knowing it was much more likely a handy book available for your lessons. 

Lydia’s health continues to fail her. She has resigned herself to death, though her mother is forcing the healers to do all they can. If I were a betting man (which I no longer am, since I have gambled away far too much already), I would not expect her to still be of this world when I next write to you. 

But as Lydia flounders, Emma grows strong. There are so many hopes resting on her young head, but she bears the attention well. I do hope to rescue her from her grandmother’s clutches at some point, but unless Sam ever heeds my urgings, that is a long ways away. He’s too cautious, which I suppose is partly my fault. I’ve shown him how far things can fall by being too rash. 

I have found a willow tree on the grounds here. It is an old, withering thing, and not nearly so grand as it surely used to be, but it is within the boundaries I am allowed to go and it lets me pretend. I can pretend that as I sit beneath its branches, my back to the trunk, that you are sitting there as well, just out of sight, as you read or write or nap peacefully. We are together in those moments, and I hope these words and the wind carry to you 

Sam tells me I’ve become overly romantic during my confinement. I re-read this letter and laugh, because he’s absolutely right. I think I owe you some romance, though, after everything. 

Yours, 

Dean

P.S. 

If you ever address me as Your Majesty again, I will refuse to write you back in protest.

P.P.S. 

We both likely know that was a terrible bluff, but please, you have called me Dean before and I much prefer it. You and I have come far beyond titles and rank.

~ ~ ~

Dean, His Majesty, 

As you are aware, I am stubborn. I wrote your given name, as requested, but it did not sit well with me to send official correspondence to my prince without some deference to his rank. 

I am sorry to hear your wife is ailing. I know it was not a love match or even one you truly had any choice in, but I know you mean her no ill will and so I cannot either. As much as it would bring me personal pain, I hope she does make a full recovery and she helps you secure your rightful throne. I hope she rules beside you, gracious and regal and an ally against those who would take your power and your life from you or your daughter. 

I hope… but I also fear.

Much is happening here in Sioux Falls behind closed doors. There are meetings between your brother and godfather, with the queen, with Jody, with other advisors whom I do not know by name. For months now I have been left to my own devices, allowed to come and go as I please (within reason, of course, though I suppose I never pushed the boundaries by encroaching on the king’s personal quarters). Today, however, I was barred from entering the throne room while one of these meetings was taking place. 

It is about you, I am sure of it. They know I have no interest in politics beyond their relevance to you and your throne. They know my loyalty too well to think I would sell their secrets. Therefore I assume they speak of you, of rescue or some disaster. 

Do they not want me to interfere? What do they not want me to know? 

Do you know more than you’ve told me? 

I apologize, you need not answer. Whatever we are to each other, it will never be my place to demand anything of you. Perhaps be on guard? 

I’m sorry I have nothing else at the moment. I have tried to stay positive, and on clear days when I can see miles towards the border with Lawrence, when I can go to our shared willow tree, I can close my eyes and imagine the wind tickling my skin is really your breath, your lips. 

Forever your humble servant, 

Castiel

~ ~ ~

Cas, 

“Whatever we are to each other”? Really? 

Cas, I’ve stared at this blank parchment for nearly an hour because I thought it was such a simple thing. We’re lovers, we’re bound together by the journey fate has placed us on. And yet it’s not that simple, is it? 

You spoke of Lydia. No, not was not a love match. We have a friendship, such as it is, but it did not start well. It started with no choice on my end, barely any on hers. I don’t like to think of it, of those nights locked in a bed chamber with her where we both drank knowing damn well we had a “duty” to fulfill. 

I talk of fate and a journey. While I was placed on my path by my birth and the events of my life, I still had choices throughout. I might have been shaped to be predisposed to those choices, but they were still my own. 

You did not have a choice in this. In us, in me. 

Your family did not give you a choice before they sold you off. You never had a choice in what you became, what you did, what campaigns or duties you were forced to undertake. 

You weren’t given a choice to be my bodyguard, and I barely gave you a choice when it came to my bed, did I? 

I thought I did. I meant to, though I understand now through my own dealings with the Amazons that “choice” is sometimes an illusion those of us in a position of power use to hide all manner of coercion and sins. You never had a choice for so long… and yet when you did, when you could have left me alone to die or be captured or gods know what else, you didn’t. You chose to help me, to stick with me despite having every reason to hate me and leave me. At the absolute worst possible time to do so, the one that offered you nothing in return except a small, forsaken prince’s gratitude, you chose me.

For that, and for so much more, I will forever be grateful. 

You call yourself my humble servant, but the real truth of the matter is that I am yours, in heart, body, and soul and long for the day when I can prove these are not idle words. 

— Dean 

P.S. 

Dean. I’m just Dean. You’ve seen me at my worst and hopefully will see me later when I achieve my best. If anyone’s earned to disregard the titles and nonsense, it’s you. So please, call me Dean. 

~ ~ ~ 

Dean, Dearest, Beloved, Frustratingly Unattainable Dean of Winchester, Rightful King, 

I know this letter will not reach you for some time if at all. I was right, and things have moved quickly as you well know. In these difficult times, I again wish myself by your side. To see you, of course, to hear your voice, but most importantly to fulfill my role as your bodyguard and protect you. 

Please be well. 

Yours, 

Castiel 

~ ~ ~ 

Dean, 

I have lost track of how many of these letters I have written. I keep them tucked in the back of my pack so they do not get stained by mud, sweat, rain, or blood as we travel. There is of course no opportunity to hand them off for delivery, no hope that any messenger could ever reach you lest they grew wings to do so, but now that I’ve started I cannot drop the habit. 

We have crossed the border and had very mild skirmishes. Your uncle has entrusted me with a command, though I had to swear a blood oath that I would head to the capital and not to you.

And still, my blood calls me to you. If I could but leave, I could make the trip by horse or on foot if need be and be at your walls within a few days— 

Your uncle is clever, Sam as well, but the queen cleverer still. It was she who impressed upon me that my duty to you binds me firmly to Sam in these dark times. If I fail Sam, I fail you. 

So I will not fail Sam. I will fight in his name as though it is yours, but know I think of no one but you. 

Please be okay, 

Castiel

~ ~ ~

Dean, 

You were right, I never had much choice. I don’t have a choice now in what I do, or so little that it makes no matter. I fight and I give the kings my advice and then I lead the soldiers under my charge as best I can. Such a narrow life, so focused, and so far removed from my desires. 

I never had much choice, but those non choices brought me to you. 

I didn’t choose to be sold, but it brought me to your castle. I never chose to be a soldier, but it made me capable of being a bodyguard, and it brought me to you. I never chose to be your bodyguard, but it brought me to your bed. I never chose any of this mess, but it helped me keep you alive. 

All these things, they brought me here to this day, this moment, within grasp of saving you. So I will trust fate and the gods, if there are such things, to keep giving me no choice, so long as it leads me back to you. 

I think I love you, and that is all the scarier because it’s been so long now that it feels that I’ve been fighting in your name longer than I’d even been in your company. Would I still recognize the man you’ve become? Would you still recognize or want me? Did we ever truly know each other, such as the nature of our relationship was? 

Is there any future for us in person, or are we doomed to undelivered letters and unfulfilled dreams?

Please be okay.

Castiel

~ ~ ~

His Majesty Dean of Winchester, 

I humbly ask that you open the gates. There is no need to fear the men outside the walls, as they are under my command and serve the name Winchester. I have only but arrived, but I can speak to your safety. There is safe passage for you and your daughter wherever you might wish to travel, and for any retainers or servants you might wish to take with you. 

If you are willing to negotiate terms for Lady Naomi and the Amazons, we can discuss their safety as well, though my ability to guarantee that is much more limited. The kings will want them to stand trial for their part in all this. You can of course abstain from such negotiations if you’d prefer, and they will be handed off to the proper authorities. 

Please send your response, in writing or in person, swiftly so that I can finally escort you home.

Your Humble Servant,

Commander Castiel of the Second Garrison


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delayed update again XD got distracted by work and laziness... hopefully only a couple chapters left to resolve things! 
> 
> come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) and feel free to poke at me about updates (seriously i need it...)

Castiel waited impatiently in his tent, decorated with silk to line the hard canvas and covered in tapestries. It was indulgent to the extreme, and far more extravagant than any tent he’d ever stayed in or even seen, and that included when he’d recently convened with Sam and Bobby. It wasn’t even his usual tent, which was safely packed away in one of the equipment wagons. 

It was for show, all of it, and Castiel did his best not to notice, despite the fact that its very purpose  _ was _ to be noticed by as many people as possible.

Preferably those in Naomi’s castle. 

It had been a day or two since they’d arrived, less since they’d gotten their camp set up and squared away. It was only this morning that Castiel was at liberty to pen a letter for Dean. They’d fought through a lot of Amazon territory to get this far, and his intel was sound: this was the last stronghold and Dean was here, alive and well, or as well as a captive prince could be. 

The messenger had been admitted into the castle with no issue, though archers stood poised and ready along the castle wall. The messenger had even returned none the worse for her adventure and had sworn she’d seen the prince. 

“I did not speak with him, Commander,” the messenger said apologetically. Hannah, he thought her name was, and made a mental note to find out. “The Lady would not let me closer or speak to anyone, save to deliver the letters you gave me. If it had not been for your orders to make sure the prince and the prince alone received your letter, she would have snatched the letter away. I stayed, as you insisted, and watched as he read it.” 

Castiel wanted to press for more. How did Dean react when he saw her, when he read the letter, when he heard it was Castiel at his door?

He didn’t, though. Gods willing, he would find out soon enough.

“You’ve done well, thank you.” He turned to the rest of his officers, men and women whom he’d grown to know as more than soldiers over the near year of campaigning. “You all have, but it’s not over yet. We take this castle, and Lawrence knows peace. I hope not to shed anymore blood, but we need to be vigilant. Lady Naomi may not have the same goals as us, and she might not be willing to concede defeat without a fight.”

They nodded and went about their business, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts and his luxury. 

He cared for neither, and craved nothing but the companionship of a man whom was closer to his heart and was now physically closer than he’d been in… gods, too long for him to want to put a number on the days. He’d been confined to the squalor of dirty woods and muddy fields with Dean before, and he’d take that all again if need be. 

He just wanted his prince back…

~ ~ ~

The ruckus within the castle walls alerted the watch. They in turn alerted the officers on duty, and they in turn awoke Castiel from his light slumber with urgent news. 

The news wasn’t anything more concrete than that. Shouting, crashing, general commotion out of sight. For a siege, that was always unsettling news. The best outcome would be a mutiny that resulted in the gates opening. The worst case… 

Castiel would not allow his soldier’s mind to follow that line of thinking to completion. He’d seen doomed leaders do terrible things to their follows instead of let them defect or surrender. If Dean or his daughter were harmed… He honestly had no idea what he would do to himself or to the survivors of this futile resistance, but it would be horrific. 

There was no use thinking about it, not until he had to. 

Not long after daybreak, Castiel’s frayed nerves were finally set to rest. 

A bugle sound from within the walls, they opened, and out rode a royal escort with none other than Dean at the center of it. 

It took all of Castiel’s strength not to rush to him then and there, but duty demanded he stay put. His hands tightened on Continental’s reins, and the horse snorted. 

“His Lord Prince Dean comes to parley!” shouted a red headed woman at the head of the meager procession. 

Castiel tore his eyes away from Dean with no small amount of effort and instead focused on the young woman. 

“Dean is welcome to come forward. I will have a meal prepared and we can discuss terms.” He raised his voice so it would carry. “Though neither Dean nor the rest of you have anything to fear. There is indeed food enough for all of you, should you need it.” 

“We do need it, thank you, Lord Commander. Shall I escort His Majesty to your tent…?” She’d been completely proper up until that moment, but her eyes shined knowingly, wickedly, as she asked. 

The rumors followed him even behind closed walls, then. His reputation had always preceded him during these campaigns. Yes, his capabilities as a soldier were among them, for how else could he have escaped Azazel’s clutches with the prince unharmed, but soon it turned to the less professional parts of his relationship with the lost prince. Honestly, it was all a lot more romantic than he remembered it, the way the bards went on about his heroism and their tender, shared embrace. 

Oh well, they weren’t really rumors if they were true, were they?

“My tent will do fine,” Castiel said with what he hoped was a dismissive air. Based on her grin, it wasn’t nearly so dismissive as he wanted it to be. 

It was agony to watch her lead Dean away. He wanted to call to him, to have turn and look his way, but as he passed, Castiel’s entire attention was arrested by the surprisingly small bundle held protectively to Dean’s chest. 

The girl clutched her father’s shoulder, nearly hidden beneath his cloak. Castiel knew more than recognized her to be a little over a year old, likely still toddling about on unsteady feet when not clinging to her father’s side. At first glance there wasn’t much of her father in her, but then the light hit her eyes, drew the spattering of freckles across her cheeks into focus, and Castiel could see nothing else. 

There was no privacy to be found in the tent, not with the red-haired woman playing maid to Emma and not with the attendants to both Dean and Castiel taking up the space, breathing in all the air, stealing any semblance of a lover’s reunion. 

It wasn’t until they were seated across from each other that Castiel allowed himself the chance to drink in his fill of Dean. 

Dean had lost weight, which was something. He’d gone from nightly banquets to barely anything on their flight from the castle, and still he looked smaller. He would have filled out nicely into a man’s form if not for the clear curve of his bones beneath gaut skin. He was haggard, no doubt from many sleepless nights. 

Castiel, though tired, had gotten more than his fair share of sleep. He’d eaten well enough, he’d exercised, he’d seen the sun. He was well, as well as he’d ever been, excepting that he was a little heart sick.

Never before had the stretch of time apart been so painfully  _ present _ . 

It was Dean who broke the silence.

“Cas,” he said. “Been a while.” 

Castiel’s heart felt sudden overfull. He was completely unequipped to do this task where he had to play a part and not pull Dean into his arms. 

“Yes,” he croaked. “A long while.” 

They smiled shyly, their gaze more often than not drifting to the table between them. 

“We should handle the business first,” Castiel said after he cleared his throat. He could do this. “What happened to Lady Naomi?” 

Dean laughed humorlessly. “I got your letter, so I killed her. She thought I was loyal to her and not a prisoner, and never questioned I would be complicit in her slowly starving us all behind those walls.” 

“Oh.” Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about any of that. “If I’d gotten here sooner—” 

“I’d have killed her sooner,” Dean said with a one shouldered shrug. “And we’d perhaps not be so hungry. She would have never surrendered.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The facade of disinterested commander faded a little. He’d failed, once again, to protect Dean when it mattered. 

“Cas, it’s not your fault. The only reason I’m alive at all is because you rescued me from the castle. Can’t really complain about your part, just my own.” 

“Yes,” he said, Sam’s proclamation weighing heavy on him. “Your part—” 

“There safe passage for everyone? Help relocating them as necessary?” 

“Yes,” Castiel said, “but—” 

“Then it doesn’t much matter what the rest of the terms are. There are a bunch of scared people who were trapped, same as I was.” 

“The rest  _ does _ matter,” Castiel insisted. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, afraid to tell Dean but more afraid of him hearing it from someone else. “Dean, you are to stand trial for what you did to your father.”

Dean stared at him blankly. He blinked, blinked again, and frowned. 

“Azazel’s dead, all his followers gone with him. Sam’s king.  _ Who _ is making me stand trial?” 

“The king,” Castiel said bluntly. He had been enraged to hear of the plan to begin with, even more so when he heard he would be charged with delivering the news to Dean and then taking him into custody. “Sam has made this concession to the nobles who lost power, land, and people during the initial coup.” 

“Oh,” Dean said, suddenly looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, weighing him down so that he slumped in his chair. “I suppose I did murder the king…” 

“You needn’t worry,” Castiel said in a rush. He reached across the table, almost thought better of it, and then decided  _ to hell with it _ and grabbed Dean’s hand. “Sam will not let anything bad happen to you or your daughter, and if he should try it, he knows I will not stand for it.” 

There was a weak, almost smile that pulled at Dean’s lips. “I know you wouldn’t, Cas. But he already gave in and allowed a trial. I don’t know how much I trust that.” 

Castiel decided against telling Dean that the trial was not so much a concession on Sam’s part but rather his own idea, a way to head off any of the nobles from independently seeking retribution. 

“You have my word. No ill will fall you or your daughter, or any retainers you choose to take with you.” 

Dean sighed, a movement that started deep in his chest and seemed to shake his whole being. 

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. Then we go to the capital, I suppose. Am I to be in irons on the trip? Will I be permitted to see Emma?”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand and waited until Dean would look at him. “You are not a prisoner. You will ride your own horse, you will be permitted your own tent, you will not be denied your daughter or anything else.” 

“Not a prisoner,” he repeated. “I know this is far better than the castle, but this isn’t any different. Granted, I’d rather be your prisoner than anyone else’s—” 

“Out,” Castiel barked. “All of you. If there’s anything within the castle walls you need, make sure my men fetch it for you. If you need anything now—rest, food, clothes—let them know the same.” 

There was a pause as half the room looked to Dean, the others waiting to obey until they saw there would be no complaint. 

Dean gave a nod to the red-haired woman, who picked up Emma in her arms. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll go get breakfast and see if they have any pretty dresses for a pretty princess.” 

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dean called after. He watched them go almost longingly. 

“I mean it,” Castiel growled. Slowly, Dean looked back to him. “You are not a prisoner. I serve Sam only because you told me to do so. My loyalty is to you and you first. If you do not wish to go, we will go somewhere else. If you order me to make a stand within these castle walls, then I will. You have but to say the word, and I will follow where you wish to lead me.” 

There was a spark in Dean’s eyes then, a flash of the man he used to be. The boy, really, the one who’d seduced Castiel just for the fun of it. 

“I believe you,” Dean said truthfully. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m glad to have you, Cas. Don’t worry, I’ll go to the capital. I… owe everyone that. Everything I’ve done… I’ve suffered, in my way, but I deserve a real punishment if that’s what they decide.” 

He turned his hand over in Castiel’s grip so their palms met. Their fingers intertwined, and Castiel let out a shuddering breath. 

“I missed you,” he whispered. 

“I missed you too,” Dean whispered back. They sat there in silence, the weight of the past few years dissipating and instead the heat of their hands grounding them in the present once more. “How long until they’ll come knocking?” he asked, only half in jest. 

“Well, most of them are terrified of me. I already yelled at them to leave, so I suspect we have until whenever your daughter misses you.” 

Dean, with a tenderness that bordered on fear, picked up Castiel’s hand and brought it to his lip. 

“Charlie is… acquainted with our history. She’ll keep Emma entertained as long as she can.” 

“Then I think we have all the time either of us could want…”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies as always for a delay between chapters... i struggled with parts of this one. should be about two chapters left, i think, counting the epilogue. sorry if it doesn't flow well or there are weird errors, it was written in a bunch of short writing sessions and not edited
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr [@jhoomwrotes](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) :) and feel free to poke at me about this one, i need the poking

Castiel felt the breath rush out of him as something small and soft but solid landed on his chest. He was awake enough to make the conscious effort not to move in response to the intrusion, the mini-attack as small hands tangled in his hair and pulled, not gently but not intentionally. 

“Emma,” he sighed. The little princess ignored him and continued her journey over him and to her father, who snored gently next to Castiel. “Gentle.” 

“Papapa,” she cooed. 

“Papa is very tired,” Castiel whispered. “You should let him sleep some more.” 

“Papa,” she repeated. She was tenacious, a vivid reminder of how stubborn and spoiled Dean had been when Castiel had first met him. 

Of course, it was much cuter on a toddler than a near grown man, and Castiel rarely felt bad about indulging her. 

This, however, was one of those rare times when he would not do so. Dean slept poorly, plagued by insomnia, bad dreams, and a restlessness that in part stemmed from a fear that Castiel would be gone when he woke. 

“Not now, love,” Castiel said. The endearment came naturally, as did much when it came to Emma. He had worried the girl might not like him, stranger that he was, but it seemed both of them had come to the same conclusion: they loved Dean, and Dean loved them, so they two must naturally love one another. 

Smiling softly at the thought, Castiel eased away from Dean and scooped Emma up in his arms. She didn’t let go of his hair, which was for the best as it made her easier to manage. She whined in wordless protest but didn’t fidget, a habit she’d thankfully picked up from her time riding around Lady Naomi’s estate on her father’s nap. 

“Charlie?” Castiel whisper-called as he brought Emma out of the tent, ever mindful of Dean sleeping. “Charlie—?” 

“I’m here,” she said. Her smile was bright and her eyes welcoming. “Where’s my girl?” She held out her arms eagerly for Emma. 

Emma saw her nanny and chirped in delight. “Cha!” she squealed when Charlie lifted her into the air. 

“Sorry,” Charlie said as she peppered the girl’s cheeks with kisses. “I know Dean needs his sleep, but she insisted. I can’t say no to this lil’ face.” 

“I know the feeling. Another hour should do, though.” 

“Then I suppose we shall have to keep m’lady occupied,” Charlie said to the princess. “What would you like to do this morning, Miss Emma?” 

Emma responded with an incomprehensible string of syllables. Charlie nodded solemnly, apparently understanding every word of it, and said, “Then a bath the princess shall have.”

Castiel spared a moment to watch them go. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the fondness bubbling in his chest. He’d barely had friends before this whole mess started, and now he had what could only be described as a  _ family _ . 

He was so lost in marveling at such a turn of events that he didn’t notice Dean was awake until he’d nearly climbed on top of him in the bed. 

“You were asleep,” he accused. 

“And you left,” Dean said around a yawn. 

“I’m sorry—” 

“It’s fine. I assume it was either important Commander Castiel business or Da Cas business, so I didn’t mind. I don’t think you’d take a piss if you needed to.” 

He wasn’t wrong, but Castiel didn’t quite want to admit it. 

It seemed too soft of him, to want to spend every possible minute by Dean’s side. So instead, he focused on the only other thing Dean had said. 

“You do you mind terribly that she calls me Da?” he asked nervously. 

“For the hundredth time, Cas,” Dean said, stretching and then curling into Castiel’s heat, “I do not mind that my two favorite people in the world get along.” 

“But… Lydia… and I’m not—” 

“Cas.” Dean’s hand was firm on Castiel’s shoulder and he waited until Castiel met his eye. “You being important to Emma takes nothing from Lydia. And I know you’re not, you don’t have to be, but if you’d  _ like _ to be, you can be whatever you’d like to be in Emma’s life. Protector. Uncle. Father. It is entirely up to you.” 

Castiel swallowed and nodded. He could not speak the words, for they still danced around the offer Dean had not actually voiced and the promises they had made in deed but not spoken aloud, and he did not think this to be the moment. 

“Face it, Cas. She’s just a damn good judge of character. Hated Naomi, and damn if that wasn’t satisfying seeing Naomi snubbed by a baby. Her own granddaughter, even.” 

Dean rarely spoke of life behind the walls, and Castiel wasn’t sure whether to encourage him to say more or let the conversation drop. 

He decided on the latter for the moment. Dean had gone three nights in a row without a nightmare or waking up shaking in fear, and Castiel would prefer to make it a solid week at least. And then two, and three, and a whole year if need be to keep Dean’s demons at bay. 

“Would you like to sleep some more?” he asked as he pressed a kiss to Dean’s brow. 

Dean leaned into it, then shook his head.

“No, we’d best be off. I know you’re delaying on my account, but it won’t due to arrive late to the King’s summons.

“Sam isn’t  _ my _ king,” Castiel said automatically, though he did acknowledge the partial lie in it. Dean was his everything, his king if he wanted it so, but he did owe Sam for all he’d done on Castiel’s behalf over the years.

“And yet we’re on the way to see him,” Dean said. There was no malice behind it, as Castiel had been careful to listen for when Dean spoke of his situation, his trial, his brother, of anything, really. Dean still blamed himself for a great deal, a burden he would no doubt shoulder for the rest of his life, but as far as he could tell, Dean gave none of the blame to Sam. 

“Aye,” Castiel said. He held his breath in case this was finally the day that Dean begged him to leave, to turn their path away from Lawrence and flee. 

He didn’t, though. He wouldn’t, Castiel had come to learn. He wasn’t the boy who’d craved power or the failure who fled in fear. He was a man grown, capable of owning his mistakes and moving forward. 

“I’ll order the camp to the ready,” Castiel said. “We’ll leave before midday.”

“Midday?” Dean whistled in mock teasing. “Can’t be the ninth hour yet. What do you think will keep us so busy that we cannot depart sooner?” 

Castiel leaned down and stole a kiss, this time on Dean’s lips. He lingered, kissing his prince thoroughly before pulling back only as far as he must. Their lips brushed as he spoke, their breath mingling together. 

“I have a few things in mind, if you’re willing to humor me.” 

Dean feigned serious consideration. “Very willing indeed, Commander.”

“Good.” He rewarded Dean with a chaste kiss to his nose. “You undress while I alert the men and find some oil.” 

~ ~ ~

Castiel walked out to the meadow where the horses had been loosed for the night. There were guards stationed around to make sure none of the animals wandered off (or worse, were stolen or taken by wolves), but otherwise left alone. 

He easily found Continental and Impala, the only two horses he was looking for, atop a far hill. If it wasn’t absurd—they were horses after all—he might think they were there on purpose, just to see him walk so far. He was by no means exhausted by the effort, but he did notice he was huffing a bit when he crested the hill to reach them. 

“You are not very nice horses,” he scolded.

Continental blinked at him. Impala shook his head before holding it high. 

“You are exactly like your riders,” he grumbled to himself, though there was no real heat behind it. He well knew that Continental was a beast well used to him and his habits. Sure footed and even tempered, Castiel could not remember having a better horse. 

Impala was… well, there was no doubting Dean was the one who’d raised the stallion. The horse was beautiful, strong, and well-trained, assuming it was Dean who rode him. Impala wouldn’t deign to bear another—not even Castiel, though he suspected Emma was a strong contender, whenever she should be big enough to ride on her own)—and barely allowed himself to be lead out to pasture by unfamiliar hands. 

Basically he was Dean’s younger self reborn as a horse. 

Castiel had remarked as such on their second night on the road, when he was drowning in green eyes and drunk on the sound of Dean’s voice. 

Dean’s laugh had been music to his ears, even if it weren’t as boisterous as it once had been.

He’d then explained to Castiel, albeit reluctantly, that he had indeed spoiled Impala. As things started to grow worse and more unstable with the Amazons, Dean had worried he’d be cut off from the world once more. The only connection he could have was something he could keep, and he wanted more than letters and memories. 

So he’d had Continental sire a foal and then raised the foal. 

“When I rode Impala, I could perfectly envision you riding Continental by my side,” Dean had whispered before Castiel had stolen his lips and not allowed him any more words that night. 

Castiel was still astounded once again, starring at the two horses, proof manifest of Dean’s love for him. It was a strange proof, but proof nonetheless.

“We’re leaving soon,” he said to the horses. Continental seemed to both understand and acknowledge him. Impala snorted and started to wander off. 

Frustrating, but not unexpected. Impala hadn’t run off, though, so he supposed that was an improvement. 

He mounted Continental and eased him back towards camp with no more than a gentle nudge. He turned and left, and trusted that Impala’s partiality towards his sire would be enough to lure him back.

When he heard an annoyed whinny followed by Impala’s indignant stomps. 

He was following, then. 

Good. Castiel didn’t want to have to walk back to fetch Dean’s horse, nor did he want to see Dean’s amused and triumphant grin when once again he wasn’t able to 

“Your horse,” Castiel said when he saw Dean and Emma. They were hiding in the opening of the tent, more for Dean’s sake than Emma’s. Emma knew no fear, no embarrassment, and she came and went as she pleased. She delighted in it, this freedom that was no doubt different than the time she’d spent behind stone walls in locked rooms, and no one had the heart to tell her no. 

It was Dean who avoided the open air. He craved it, Castiel could tell, but there were too many curious eyes. Castiel doubted there was any way to make this transition easy for him, especially with a trial looming, though he did his best to put Dean at ease. 

Having him travel at Castiel’s side, in easy reach of protection, encouragement, and familiarity was one of those ways. 

Letting Dean hide in the tent was another. 

“Hoys!” Emma cried in delight, the closest she’d yet come to saying  _ horse _ and clapped enthusiastically. “Hoys! Up up!”

Castiel obediently helped her up and held her so she would not fall or tumble down. Impala stamped the ground impatiently—Impala did hate staying still for anyone—though Castiel knew from experience that he was not likely to bolt with the small princess on his back. 

Dean hesitantly came over, sparing a touch to pet Impala’s neck, and positioned himself in a way that kept the majority of the camp from being able to view him. 

“How far from Lawrence are we?” he asked, only the hint of strain evident in his voice. 

He was scared, despite Castiel’s reassurances. 

_ Castiel _ was scared, despite Sam’s promises. Promises were just words, and words often turned into actions, some of which were far from the expectations that had originally been laid out. This whole mess started with words whispered in Dean’s ear, and now they were quite far from the path Dean had hoped to set out upon. 

While he doubted Dean’s thoughts tended in this exact manner, his apprehension was clear. Their progress, which had been quick as they started, when they were still fleeing Dean’s imprisonment. As they’d reached the midway point, Dean had found excuses to slow them down. 

Emma was tired, they should make camp. That was such a lovely meadow off the path, they should stop to explore it. Perhaps they should spend the afternoon picking apples from the wild orchard they encountered. This tavern was quite welcoming with good food and drink, enough for their whole entourage and then some. 

Castiel had indulged him and added excuses of his own. A journey that should have taken no more than a fortnight at an easy pace had already taken them nearly two months. There had been missives here and there from Sam, urging them forward as gently as he could. Short of a direct order, though, Castiel wasn’t particularly inclined to obey. 

Even then, he was perfectly willing to lead an order from Dean supercede Sam’s. 

Sam likely knew this, which was why he hadn’t pressed the matter. 

“My scouts tell me it should be three days at the most,” Castiel said. In truth, the scouts were bewildered it had taken them this long, but they’d long since adjusted their reports to match the rescued prince’s pace. “Perhaps more if we visit any of the towns outside the castle’s estates,” he offered. 

Dean took in a deep breath, held it a moment, and then it out with a whoosh that was not quite a sigh. 

“No,” he said decisively. “No, three days is good. That’s… that’s enough time, I think.” 

“For what?” Castiel asked cautiously. 

If this were the time before, when he was a mere bodyguard out of his depth as he worried for his suave, mysterious prince, he would have worried over the question but never voiced it. 

He’d learned not to hold back those worries. 

Dean looked shocked for a moment, then gave a half smile. “To work up the nerve to see them all,” he said quietly. 

There was no need to say who “they” were. 

It was Sam, Bobby, Ellen, all the nobles and peasants and the world at large that he’d disappeared from some time ago. 

People he owed explanations to, people he owed blood to. People whom he owed nothing to, but who would demand something of him all the same. 

“Well then,” Castiel said and attempted to match his own determination to Dean’s, “we should set out.” 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it! i made myself sit down and write XD you'd think it'd be easy but i've been struggling to get enough alone time at home to actually *think*, y'know? 
> 
> still working on ficlets regularly, so make sure to stop by my tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) if you're looking for a destiel ficlet :)

Dean shuddered, his whole body tensing before he relaxed into a boneless mess in Castiel’s arms. Castiel’s own climax had come and gone some time ago, but he’d attentively worked Dean through two of his own. They now slumped against the bed, each breath taken in tandem as they luxuriated in the other’s presence. 

They had not been able to properly fuck each other. Oil was hard to come by, and it wasn’t as though Castiel had thought to bring any with him. His entire being had been focused on Dean’s safety, his sanity, just  _ seeing _ him, that it had legitimately never crossed his mind to prepare for a renewal of their sexual relationship. 

He had, of course, gladly welcomed Dean to his bed, and only then managed some meager embarrassment at having overlooked such a basic thing. 

For what it was worth, Dean didn’t seem to mind. 

They lay there in the silence, listening to the gentle breeze brush against the outside of their tent, the swell of voices outside as the camp set to work. 

This was it, their last day of travel. No matter what they did, they would reach the city within a few hours. Castiel had given in to Dean’s wish that they set up camp, or they would have arrived just after dusk the previous day. 

Granted, it was rather unkingly to arrive after dark. 

_ “I’m not the king,” _ Dean had whispered against Castiel’s skin as they’d fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

_ “You should be,” _ Castiel had whispered back.  _ “You’re the heir.” _

_ “Should I?” _ Dean had challenged, and then cut off any protest with a kiss. 

Castiel put it out of his mind. His job was to take care of Dean and get him to the castle. That’s what he could do, that’s what he needed to do today, so that’s what he would concentrate on now.

Or soon. They deserved at least another hour together before opening the tent flat and welcoming in the world. Or heading out into it, as the case might be. 

~ ~ ~

An hour turned into two, then nearly three before Emma came squealing into their tent. Charlie had gone to the trouble of doing her hair and dressing her in her best outfits. For all else he could say about Naomi—and indeed, there was  _ a lot _ he’d wanted to say face to face—she had doted upon her granddaughter. Emma looked very much the part of princess, even showing off a curtsey or two before diving onto their bed and burying herself in the downy pillows. 

“I suppose we should get ready, then,” Dean said, his tone unreadable. 

“I suppose so.” It was on the tip of his tongue, the words and promises he’d offered Dean so many times before.  _ We can leave. We don’t have to return. If you dread it, we can stay away. _

He didn’t offer them again now. He knew in his heart Dean would refuse them, both too eager to see his brother and too keen on accepting punishment for his past misdeeds, so he held them back. It seemed almost cruel to say them now. 

While Dean readied himself with his finest clothes (not nearly so fine as he deserved even as a prince, nevermind the crown prince, but ah well, it was all they had), Castiel put on his armor and prepared to meet the troops. He even went so far as to polish it beforehand, knowing that as Dean’s escort he would need to show not only his own rank but Dean’s as well. 

When he finally did step out into the open air, he paused a moment. He lifted a hand to the air and watched droplets of rain collect on the leather glove. 

Castiel had never believed in omens. As a soldier, he couldn’t afford to. If he’d ever once let himself worry about fate having the upper hand before a battle, he would have never found the courage to do what needed to be done. There were times when he’d  _ hoped _ the gods were at work protecting Dean, but in his heart he’d always trusted in himself and those around him more than the visible strings of potentially disinterested, or worse, malevolent forces. 

But… there were others who did. It was a rather inauspicious thing, to have nothing but clear skies and fair weather as they traveled and then a drizzle on the day of their arrival. There’d be fewer crowds to greet them, for sure, and Dean’s return would more easily be spun by those who meant him ill. 

_ Aye, it poured rain it did. The sky opened up and drenched the would-be prince it did. Barely a soul came to the castle to see him. Pitiful crowd it was. Saw it with my own eyes, and with my own ears heard not a single cheer in his honor!  _

Fuck, that was exactly the sort of garbage the nobles would circulate. Sam was doing what he could, and a great many had stood behind him during the civil war, but that didn’t mean there weren’t plenty who wanted blood for what had happened. Dean’s blood in particular, since apparently Azazel’s hadn’t sufficed. 

He had faith in Sam and Bobby, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have liked a fucking sunny day to help them out. 

“There’s a reason people say fuck off to the gods,” he said to an approaching stormcloud. 

It ignored him. 

He did his best to ignore it back, pretending the weather didn’t darken his mood and making a show of it to his men and women. They had their orders, which most of them had anticipated the night before, and were well on their way to having the camp packed up. A half hour’s notice was all they’d need to be back on the road, and only a few more after that until they arrived at the castle gates. 

And that would officially end the part of all this Castiel actually had any control over. He had no say in the trial, he’d have little to no influence on Dean’s living arrangements (except what he could exert by frightening the castle staff, which might actually be considerable if they were the same ones who’d seen him brooding these past few months), and there’d be nothing for him to  _ do _ save mind Dean and Emma. He didn’t mind the task, not at all, yet he feared the lack of purpose. 

A year on now, he’d had a singular goal that had driven him. He could always set his sites on that goal, even if he didn’t quite know how to get there. Now he was even more lost. The goal was simply to see Dean happy and healthy. The problem was Dean himself didn’t seem to know how to do that, nor did it always seem something he  _ wanted _ . 

Fuck how he missed being a soldier. Following orders had always been simpler than this whole mess. 

“Cas?” 

Castiel startled at the sound of Dean’s voice. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard him approach. 

Not a good sign for a man fearing a political ambush. 

“Yes?” 

Dean led both Impala and Continental forward. Continental kept walking, ignoring Dean’s hold on his bridle, intent on getting to Cas. 

“You always play favorites, you little shit?” Dean asked but let the horse go. “I fed you the best apples and carrots I could find whenever you visited, you know.”

Continental nuzzled Castiel’s side and stood there patiently. 

“You’re going to blame Continental of nepotism when you’re the one who raised Impala? The most obstinate horse I’ve ever met?” 

As if proud of the claim, Impala snorted and hooved at the ground.

Dean shrugged. There was a smile playing at his lips, one that made it clear he completely accepted the blame for Impala’s behavior and wasn’t sure that he cared. 

“We ready?” Dean asked. 

Castiel held his breath a moment. Try as he might, he could think of no reason to delay. Dean’s expression, his tone, the way he held himself, gave nothing away. 

_ At least he remembers how to carry himself like a prince, as stately as he is distant. _

_ I only wish he would not do it to me… _

“Yes,” he finally admitted. “Everyone is ready, we could depart within a few minutes if I— if  _ you _ give the order.” 

That broke through Dean’s facade. “What!?  _ Me _ ? Cas, these are  _ your _ men—” 

“And they’re  _ your _ people. Might as well get some practice being a prince again. Whatever else might come, they’ll expect that much of you.” 

Dean gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know how many princely duties I’ll actually be given, assuming I even make it through the trial.” 

And then to cut off the conversation, Dean mounted Impala and cupped his hands around his mouth. 

“We head to Lawrence!” he shouted. All eyes immediately turned to him, and Castiel felt a swell of pride that Dean sounded almost like his old self. “Get ready to march!” 

There was a smattering of applause, a great deal more than Castiel would have received, but most were too busy rushing to their carriages and animals. 

“Let’s get you to the front of the procession,” Castiel said. “They’ll need to see you first.” 

Dean grimaced. As a teen, he would have loved the attention. 

“Yeah yeah, I know. Let’s get Emma and Charlie.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” 

~ ~ ~

The castle gates stood open, waiting for them. The roads had been lined with peasants and travelers who’d watched in open curiosity, though shied away. An armed force, a man who claimed power over them, these things had only spelled disaster in the past few years. They weren’t hostile, and several had smiled and waved when Dean looked their way. 

And Castiel was happy to note that Dean had returned their smiles and waved back. 

Awaiting them within the walls was Sam, surrounded by counselors and advisers Castiel knew by sight if not by name, and of course Sully was there. He even inclined his head to Castiel, then went back to being a rigid statue, unworthy of note. It went against his nature, which was all smiles and kind words, and Castiel again wondered that such a man had ever become a bodyguard. And a damned fine one at that.

Bobby’s absence was expected—a foreign king being so involved was problematic enough, and Sam was insistent he needed to do more on his own and not look like a puppet—but Castiel still found himself searching the crowd and castle towers for him. He’d likely hidden himself away in the castle, out of sight and out of mind, and would meet with Dean privately later. 

Dean dismounted and walked forward across the empty space. Castiel frowned, his own pride injured on Dean’s behalf that he was forced to make the first move. Or was it his right to make the first move? He wasn’t sure what tradition dictated, and perhaps he was too on edge to be able to think objectively. 

Castiel dismounted as well and shadowed Dean from a reasonable distance. He was his escort, his bodyguard, after all, and given everything that had already happened within these walls, he took that role very seriously. If only he could draw his sword or dagger without creating a scandal. 

Dean began to move forward more briskly now to cross the last few yards between them, arms opening for a hug. He’d missed his brother, after all, and it seemed only right that they share a heartfelt reunion.

Sam subtly stepped back to deflect the attempt. His hand waved Dean away, a small movement those too far away would miss, and he looked up to avoid Dean’s eye. 

Dean froze in surprise. He nearly stumbled but quickly caught himself. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, then inclined his head in greeting. 

“Sam,” he said, tone flat and voice wrecked. “Good to see you.” 

And then he took a few steps backwards, nearly bumping into Castiel. Their eyes met briefly and Dean visibly relaxed, back in the safety of Castiel’s presence. 

Castiel turned back to Sam, glaring at him for the rejection. He was sure they’d hear all about the necessity of it later. Appearances blah blah blah politics blah blah blah, yet he could not wrap his mind around it. It was inconceivable that he would not welcome Dean as his brother. After all the things he’d said, all the declarations he’d made…

… In private. In Castiel’s presence. 

He bristled at the thought, but pushed it aside. 

This  _ was _ politics, he reminded himself. It was a game Castiel had never understand, a dance he’d never learned the moves to. Sam was adept at navigating these waters and doing what was best, whereas Castiel was not and never would be. If Sam was behaving this way, there was a reason for it. 

And it’d damned well better be a good one. 

“Dean,” Sam said. “Welcome back. We’ve felt your absence. Has Castiel told you about the trial?”

“He has.” 

“And I take it you accept?” 

Dean shrugged. “I suppose I do. I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“It’s your home, Dean. You’re always allowed here.” 

“Forgive me, but that hasn’t been my experience the past few years.” 

As they spoke and went through the customary formalities, Castiel watched Sam closely. He’d become an impenetrable wall, giving nothing away. There was no anger but no warmth, either. 

At least until a certain pixie arrived. 

“Da!” Emma squealed as she ran forward. She latched onto Dean’s leg and pulled urgently. 

Dean’s mood brightened. He picked her up without hesitation, straightened the bow in her hair, and then presented her to Sam. 

“Emma, this is your Uncle Sammy. Remember I told you about him and showed you his portrait?” 

“S’meee?” she asked, then pushed away from her father. He scrambled to put her down so she could do her long practiced curtsy and then rushed back to her father’s arms. 

Sam stood as if in shock, eyes bulging in a decidedly un-kinglike manner. He recovered quickly. A smile broke out across his face like the first bloom after winter. 

“Princess Emma,” he said with mock formality and bowed to her. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.” 

Emma clapped in delight at the attention. 

“Would you like to come into the castle for a treat?” Sam asked. “I think there are some cakes and cookies—” 

“COOKIE!” she squealed. “COOKIE COOKIE COOKIE!” Each shout was accompanied by more clapping, all of it right in Dean’s ear. 

Sam stood there awkwardly, like he very much wanted to hold his niece or lead her inside by the hand, but not quite sure he could do so within the confines of the scenario he’d constructed. 

_ Good _ , Castiel thought harshly.  _ Let him feel the same discomfort he’s imposing on the rest of us. _

Dean did his brother a favor, though, and started up the steps to the castle. “Let’s get a snack, then, and talk to Uncle Sammy some more. Good idea?” 

The advisers parted for him, the servants scrambled to warn the kitchen staff, and it was up to Sam to follow behind. 

~ ~ ~

“Don’t know how I feel about this trial,” Dean joked. He stretched in his nightclothes, the day’s events wearing heavily on him. “Sam seems a little…” He floundered for the right word, and then shrugged. Castiel knew what he meant, anyway. 

“He’ll be lenient,” Castiel assured him automatically, even though it was an assurance he didn’t quite believe anymore. He had faith in Sam to be a good leader, but he remembered the snub in the courtyard and his stiff behavior while they ate. 

Sam wasn’t used to being a brother, and he certainly wasn’t used to playing second fiddle anymore. He would be fair, to his own judgement, of that much Castiel was sure. But fair to  _ whom _ , exactly?

That did not mean Dean would escape punishment, an assumption that Castiel had been clinging to since the word ‘trial’ was first brought up. 

He put it out of his mind. Dean didn’t need his worries on top of his own. Besides, Castiel was more than willing to fight his way out of the castle with Dean and Emma in tow if need be. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dean said dismissively. The worry didn’t leave his eyes. “Acting as both king and judge without seeming impartial is difficult, especially when it’s your brother on trial. He’s probably got a lot on his mind, is all.” 

Dean climbed into the bed and buried his face in the pillows. Castiel enjoyed the sight of Dean in his old room, in the bed they’d shared on numerous occasions. Was it selfish to delight in this small return to normalcy? In the small ways that things were actually  _ better _ than they had been? Castiel’s presence here was still expected, but his role was different and more importantly, everyone  _ knew _ it was different. 

The whole kingdom likely knew full well of his relationship with Dean. Sioux Fall certainly did. 

It took a moment to remember the thread of the conversation. 

“Did you ever preside over trials?” he asked as he relaxed out of his armor and eased into the bed. He kept several knives handy, of course. Not in the bed itself, that would be foolish, but all within easy reach. 

“Me?” Dean snorted. He rolled onto his back and stared at the bed’s canopy. “My father didn’t like to hand over power, even to his own sons, so no. He’d rather micromanage everything himself, and if he was too busy or ill-tempered to act as judge, he would simply not hear any cases.” 

There was less anger to Dean’s words for his father than there had been when the man was alive. Castiel wondered if Dean’s actual opinion had softened or rather he’d gained some perspective. 

Or perhaps his own guilt muddied things up.

“I did see a good many trials,” Dean continued, unaware of Castiel’s musings. “I rarely was asked for my opinion on the matter. I do remember one where a farmer tried to cornobble his neighbor over a fallen tree between their properties that neither wanted to clean up.” Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “My father… he… he had them both murdered for it. For wasting his time with the matter.” 

Castiel had no words. It was no surprise, given what he already knew about the late King John. He turned to action instead, blowing out the candle and moving to hold Dean. They were too exhausted for more than a few kisses and caresses, gentle if not chaste, until they settled into each other’s arms. 

“Is Sam much like your father?” Castiel asked into the darkness, half hoping Dean was already asleep. 

There came a deep sigh from Dean. It still took him several moments to reply as he considered the question.

“He has a good heart, so I hope not. But he’s grown up quickly and I wasn’t there. I don’t think Bobby would let him go too far, but Bobby did nothing when my father…” He turned away and pulled Castiel’s arm over him, to keep them close. 

“I don’t know,” Dean confessed. “I don’t know at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trial coming up next chapter!


End file.
